#AmericanWriters
I sit at home at my desk alone as I used to do on many sunday afternoons when you came back to me,
You sleep in the darkness, you with the back I love & the gift of sleeping through my noisy nights of poetry. I have taken other men into my tho…
In the glass-bottomed boat of our lives, we putter along gazing at the other world under the sea– that world of flickering
The first snow of the year & you lying between my breasts in my husband’s house & the snow gently rising in my… like guilt,
You gave me the child that seamed my belly & stitched up my life. You gave me: one book of love poem… five years of peace
Cement up to the neck & my head packed with unsaid words. A gullet full of pebbles, a mouth
My love is too much– it embarrasses you– blood, poems, babies, red needs that telephone from foreign countries,
You-the purest pleasure of my life, the split pit that proves the ripeness of the fruit,
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…
If you ask him he will talk for ho… how at fourteen he hammered signs,… raw with cold, and later painted b… in ladies’ boudoirs; how he played… for two weeks in jail, and lived o…
In the chest is caged bat who seeks escape through the mouth. He flaps his wings & the molars shiver.
Little egg, little nub, full complement of fingers, toes, little rose blooming
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
For centuries we have lain like this, our warmths intermingled, our hearts beating the same two-step,
In Autumn, as in Spring, the sap flows, the sap wishes to race against heartbeats