#AmericanWriters
The women he has had are all faces without eyes. He has entered them blind as a cut worm. He has swum their oceans
My love is too much– it embarrasses you– blood, poems, babies, red needs that telephone from foreign countries,
In the glass-bottomed boat of our lives, we putter along gazing at the other world under the sea– that world of flickering
Testing the soul’s mettle, the frost heaves holes in the roads to the heart, the glass forest
There is only one story: he loved her, then stopped loving her, while she did not stop loving him.
The house of the body is a stately manor open for nothing never to the public. But
‘Hotel rooms constitute a separate… —Tom Stoppard A bed, a telephone, the cord to the world beyond the womb . . .
These beautifully grown men. Thes… Look at them looking! They’re overdrawn on all accounts… & they’ve missed (for the hundredth time) the expre…
Here, at the end of the world, the flowers bleed as if they were hearts, the hearts ooze a darkness like india ink,
I began by loving women & the love turned to bitterness. My mother, the bitter, whose bitter lesson–
You take me to the restaurant wher… plays God over a fish tank. The f… pace their green cage, waiting to… out of an element. Who knows what… There are thirteen in a tank meant
My broom with its tufts of roses beckoning at the black, with its crown of thistles, prickling the sky,
Mute marriages: the ten-ton block of ice obstructing the throat, the heart, the red filter of the liver, the clogged life.
On line at the supermarket waiting for the tally, the blue numerals tattooed on the white skins
After the first astounding rush, after the weeks at the lake, the crystal, the clouds, the water… the snow breaking under our boots… & the long mornings in bed. .…