#AmericanWriters
Nature will bear the closest inspe… —Thoreau The raspberries in my driveway have always
Old bag of bones upside down, what are you searching for in poetry, in meditation?
‘Why do you have stripes in your forehead, Mama? Are you
The great bed of the world arching over graves over Babi Yar with its multitude of bones, with battalions of screams
You gave me a rose last time we met. I told myself if it bloomed our love would bloom,
Driving me away is easier than saying goodbye– kissing the air,
Nobody believes in love– not even me. Love is the thing you wait to end.
Living in a house near the Black Forest, without any clocks, she’s begun to listen to the walls.
All over the district, on leather… & brocade couches, on daybeds & ‘professional divans,’ they… The air is thick with it, the ears of analysts must be stick…
Dear Colette, I want to write to you about being a woman for that is what you write to me. I want to tell you how your face
At dusk Demeter becomes afraid for baby Persephone lost in that hell which she herself created
I love to go to sleep, When bed takes me like a lover wrapping my limbs in cool linen, soothing the fretfulness
On line at the supermarket waiting for the tally, the blue numerals tattooed on the white skins
I sit at my desk alone as I did on many Sunday afternoons when you came back to me, your arms aching for me,
Now, moving in, cartons on the flo… the radio playing to bare walls, picture hooks left stranded in the unsoiled squares where pain… and something reminding us