#AmericanWriters
The lover in these poems is me; the doctor, Love. He appears
When I am an old lady the young men will come to me & sit trembling at my trembling
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…
You open to me a little, then grow afraid and close again, a small boy
If it is only for the taking off– the velvet cloak, the ostrich feather boa, the dress which slithers to the fl… with the sound of strange men sigh…
Black ship of night sailing through the world & the moon an orange slice tangy to the teeth of lovers who lie
Chi vuol esser lieto, sia: di doman non c’e certezza. —Lorenzo di Medici In the poplars’ lengthening shadow… amid the rows of marigolds and ear…
Mute marriages: the ten-ton block of ice obstructing the throat, the heart, the red filter of the liver, the clogged life.
In Autumn, as in Spring, the sap flows, the sap wishes to race against heartbeats
Little egg, little nub, full complement of fingers, toes, little rose blooming
Driving me away is easier than saying goodbye– kissing the air,
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
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,
You whom I hoped to reach by writ… you beyond the multicolored tangle of telephone wires, you with your white paper soul trampled in transit,
On line at the supermarket waiting for the tally, the blue numerals tattooed on the white skins