Anne Sexton - The Farmer's Wife lyrics

From the hodge porridge of their country lust, their local life in Illinois, where all their acres look like a sprouting broom factory, they name just ten years now that she has been his habit; as again tonight he'll say honey bunch let's go and she will not say how there must be more to living than this brief bright bridge of the raucous bed or even the slow braille touch of him like a heavy god grown light, that old pantomime of love that she wants although it leaves her still alone, built back again at last, mind's apart from him, living her own self in her own words and hating the sweat of the house they keep when they finally lie each in separate dreams and then how she watches him, still strong in the blowzy bag of his usual sleep while her young years bungle past their same marriage bed and she wishes him cripple, or poet, or even lonely, or sometimes, better, my lover, dead.