I like boring things.
Sylvia’s Death by Anne Sexton
for Sylvia O Sylvia, Sylvia, with a dead box of stones and spoons, with two children, two meteors wandering loose in a tiny playroom, with your mouth into the sheet, into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer, (Sylvia, Sylvia where did you go after you wrote me from Devonshire about rasing potatoes and keeping bees?) [...]