(1979)
#AmericanWriters
The art of losing isn’t hard to ma… so many things seem filled with th… to be lost that their loss is no d… Lose something every day. Accept… of lost door keys, the hour badly…
Still dark. The unknown bird sits on his usual… The little dog next door barks in… inquiringly, just once. Perhaps in his sleep, too, the bir…
Out on the high “bird islands,” C… the razorbill auks and the silly—l… with their backs to the mainland in solemn, uneven lines along the… while the few sheep pastured there…
From Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn… please come flying. In a cloud of fiery pale chemicals… please come flying, to the rapid rolling of thousands…
A washing hangs upon the line, but it’s not mine. None of the things that I can see belong to me. The neighbors got a radio with an…
About the size of an old—style dol… American or Canadian, mostly the same whites, gray green… —this little painting (a sketch fo… has never earned any money in its…
The moon in the bureau mirror looks out a million miles (and perhaps with pride, at hersel… but she never, never smiles) far and away beyond sleep, or
In Worcester, Massachusetts, I went with Aunt Consuelo to keep her dentist’s appointment and sat and waited for her in the dentist’s waiting room.
He sleeps on the top of a mast with his eyes fast closed. The sails fall away below him like the sheets of his bed, leaving out in the air of the nigh…
Think of the storm roaming the sky… like a dog looking for a place to… listen to it growling. Think how they must look now, the… lying out there unresponsive to th…
Wasted, wasted minutes that couldn… minutes of a barbaric condescensio… —Stare out the bathroom window at… at their dark needles, accretions… woodenly crystallized, and where t…
Land lies in water; it is shadowed… Shadows, or are they shallows, at… showing the line of long sea-weede… where weeds hang to the simple blu… Or does the land lean down to lift…
The still explosions on the rocks, the lichens, grow by spreading, gray, concentric sho… They have arranged to meet the rings around the moon,…
I can make out the rigging of a sc… a mile off; I can count the new cones on the spruce. It is… the pale bay wears a milky skin; t… no clouds except for one long, car…
In the cold, cold parlor my mother laid out Arthur beneath the chromographs: Edward, Prince of Wales, with Princess Alexandra,