#AmericanWriters
It always comes, and when it comes… To will it is enough to bring them… The knack is this, to fasten and n… Their limbs are charmed; they cann… Desire is limbo: they’re unhappy t…
This poem is not addressed to you. You may come into it briefly, But no one will find you here, no… You will have changed before the p… Even while you sit there, unmovabl…
We have climbed the mountain. There’s nothing more to do. It is terrible to come down To the valley Where, amidst many flowers,
Lights are burning In quiet rooms Where lives go on Resembling ours. The quiet lives
Sleepily, the muse to me: “Let us… Good friends, but only friends. Y… And yawned. And kissed, for the l… Who earlier, weeping at my touch,… “I loved you once.” And: “No, I…
It begins again, the nocturnal pul… It courses through the cables laid… It mounts to the chandeliers and b… We are too close. Too late, we w… We are involved with the surge.
Cities burn behind us; the lake gl… A tall loudspeaker is announcing p… Another, by the lake, the times of… Childhood, once vast with terrors… Is fading to a landscape deep with…
This one was put in a jacket, This one was sent home, This one was given bread and meat But would eat none, And this one cried No No No No
Your face more than others’ faces Maps the half-remembered places I have come to I while I slept— Continents a dream had kept Secret from all waking folk
"After so many years of pursuing t… I came home. But I had caught sig… You see it sometimes in the blue-s… Of island schooners, bound for An… And it takes other forms. I saw i…
There is a gold light in certain o… That represents a diffusion of sun… It is like happiness, when we are… It comes from everywhere and nowhe… And the poor soldiers sprawled at…
