Almost yesterday, those gentle ladies stole
to their baths in Atlantic City, for the lost
rites of the first sea of the first salt
running from a faucet. I have heard they sat
for hours in briny tubs, patting hotel towels
sweetly over shivered skin, smelling the stale
harbor of a lost ocean, praying at last
for impossible loves, or new skin, or still
another child. And since this was the style,
I don't suppose they knew what they had lost...

Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal
toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost
ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust
would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.

So clever how Sexton plays with line end words of this poem, all consisting of the same small group of letters, producing a subtle form of rhyme - echoing and mirroring.

And such a smart way of focusing on her subject, searching for the missing ingredient of life. I love the whimsical use of the Salt Lake and salt cellar as symbols. And the last stanza ties up the philosophy - magnificent!