#AmericanWriters
The man under the bed The man who has been there for yea… The man who waits for my floating… The man who is silent as dustballs… The man whose breath is the breath…
The decorum of fire... —Pablo Neruda We learned the decorum of fire, the flame’s curious symmetry, the blue heat at the center of the…
We used to strike sparks off each other. Our eyes would meet or our hands, & the blue lightning of love
This is the long tunnel of wanting… Its walls are lined with remembere… wet & red as the inside of you… full & juicy as your probing t… warm as your belly against mine,
I love to go to sleep, When bed takes me like a lover wrapping my limbs in cool linen, soothing the fretfulness
Old bag of bones upside down, what are you searching for in poetry, in meditation?
These beautifully grown men. Thes… Look at them looking! They’re overdrawn on all accounts… & they’ve missed (for the hundredth time) the expre…
The man giving birth in the dark has died & come back to life again, is stretching out his arms
Here, at the end of the world, the flowers bleed as if they were hearts, the hearts ooze a darkness like india ink,
I am the Sphinx. I am the woman buried in sand up to her chin. I am waiting for an archaeologist to unearth me,
At the furthermost reach of the se… where Atlantis sinks under the wak… I have come to heal my life. I knit together like a broken arm. The salt fills the crevices of bon…
For Naomi Lazard Sometimes I can’t wait until I… —Naomi Lazard My friends are tired. The ones who are married are tired
There is only one story: he loved her, then stopped loving her, while she did not stop loving him.
She was not a slender woman, but her skin was milk mixed in with strawberry jam & between her legs the word pu… & her hair was the color of wh…
Nature will bear the closest inspe… —Thoreau The raspberries in my driveway have always