#AmericanWriters
Black ship of night sailing through the world & the moon an orange slice tangy to the teeth of lovers who lie
The whole world is flat & I am round. Even women avert their eyes, & men, embarrassed by the messy way
Little egg, little nub, full complement of fingers, toes, little rose blooming
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…
In the glass-bottomed boat of our lives, we putter along gazing at the other world under the sea– that world of flickering
We have a small sculpture of H… Nothing would surprise him. The beast in the jungle was what h… Edith Wharton’s obfuscating older… He fled the demons
Testing the soul’s mettle, the frost heaves holes in the roads to the heart, the glass forest
The house of the body is a stately manor open for nothing never to the public. But
Because my grandmother’s hours were apple cakes baking, & dust motes gathering, & linens yellowing & seams and hems
You are the first muse who came to… The others began & ended with… or a glance or a kiss between stan… the others strode away in the poin… or were kicked out by the stiletto…
Because I am here anchoring you to the passionate darkness, you gaze out the window at the light.
The old poet with his face full of lines, with iambs jumping in his hair lik… with all the revisions of his body unsaying him,
I put our books face to face so they could talk. They whispered about us. I put yours on top of mine. They would not mate.
She leaps into the alien heart of the passerby, the drunk, the girl who spouts Freudian talk over Szechuan food. She is part herself,
Smoke, it is all smoke in the throat of eternity. . . . For centuries, the air was full of… Whistling up chimneys on their spiky brooms