(1979)
#Americans #PulitzerPrize #Women
From narrow provinces of fish and bread and tea, home of the long tides where the bay leaves the sea twice a day and takes
Although it is a cold evening, down by one of the fishhouses an old man sits netting, his net, in the gloaming almost in… a dark purple—brown,
The great light cage has broken up… freeing, I think, about a million… whose wild ascending shadows will… and all the wires come falling dow… No cage, no frightening birds; the…
I am in need of music that would f… Over my fretful, feeling fingertip… Over my bitter—tainted, trembling… With melody, deep, clear, and liqu… Oh, for the healing swaying, old a…
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…
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…
On the unbreathing sides of hills they play, a specklike girl and bo… alone, but near a specklike house. The Sun’s suspended eye blinks casually, and then they wad…
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…
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…
The sun is blazing and the sky is… Umbrellas clothe the beach in ever… Naked, you trot across the avenue. Oh, never have I seen a dog so ba… Naked and pink, without a single h…
To the sagging wharf few ships could come. The population numbered two giants, an idiot, a dwarf, a gentle storekeeper
This is not my home. How did I ge… be over that way somewhere. I am the color of wine, of tinta.… right claw is saffron—yellow. See,… flag. I am dapper and elegant; I…
I live only here, between your eye… But I live in your world. What do… —Collect no interest—otherwise wha… Above all I am not that staring m…
From a magician’s midnight sleeve the radio-singers distribute all their love-songs over the dew-wet lawns. And like a fortune-teller’s
Beneath that loved and celebrated… silent, bored really blindly veine… grieves, maybe lives and lets live, passes bets, something moving but invisibly,