#AmericanWriters
If God is a dog drowsing, contemplating the quintessential dogginess of the universe, of the whole canine race, why are we
I am happiest near the ocean, where the changing light reminds me of my death & the fact that it need not be…
Because you did, I too arrange fl… Watching the pistils just like ins… And the hard, red flesh of the pet… Widening beneath my eyes. They mo… Of clocks, seeming not to move exc…
Already six years past your age! The steps in Rome, the house near Hampstead Heath, & all your fears that you might cease to be
Again & again I have read your books without ever wishing to know you. I suck the alphabet of blood. I chew the iron filings of your wo…
A delicate border. A nonexistent… The train obligingly dissolves in… The G.I. next to me is talking wa… I don’t ‘know the Asian mind,’ he… Moving through old arguments.
Because my grandmother’s hours were apple cakes baking, & dust motes gathering, & linens yellowing & seams and hems
Little egg, little nub, full complement of fingers, toes, little rose blooming
After the college reading, the eager students gather. They ask me
The man under the bed The man who has been there for yea… The man who waits for my floating… The man who is silent as dustballs… The man whose breath is the breath…
He was six foot four, and forty… and even colder than he thought he… James Thurber, The Thirteen Cloc… Not that I cared about the other… Those perfumed breasts with hearts
You can be hurt because you want too much; because in your face it says: love me, nurture me; because in your teeth it says:
People wish to be settled. Onl… —Thoreau My life has been the instrument for a mouth
"...a frozen memory, like any p… where nothing is missing, not even… and especially, nothingness..."… —Julio Cortázar, “Blow Up” Mirror-mad,
There is a white wood house near… in whose garden the nightingale st… Though Keats is dead, the bird wh… returns with melodies, on easeful… A lock of hair the poet’s love rec…