Locked Doors

For the angels who inhabit this town, although their shape constantly changes, each night we leave some cold potatoes and a bowl of milk on the windowsill.

Usually they inhabit heaven where, by the way, no tears are allowed.

They push the moon around like a boiled yam.

The Milky Way is their hen with her many children.

When it is night the cows lie down but the moon, that big bull, stands up.

- Anne Sexton, “Locked Doors”