#AmericanWriters
I sleep with double pillows since… Is one of them for you-or is it yo… My bed is heaped with books of poe… I fall asleep on yellow legal pads… Oh the orgies in stationery stores…
Again & again I have read your books without ever wishing to know you. I suck the alphabet of blood. I chew the iron filings of your wo…
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. .…
My broom with its tufts of roses beckoning at the black, with its crown of thistles, prickling the sky,
Male? Female? God doesn’t care about sex & the long tree-shaded avenue
You-the purest pleasure of my life, the split pit that proves the ripeness of the fruit,
The first snow of the year & you lying between my breasts in my husband’s house & the snow gently rising in my… like guilt,
‘Hotel rooms constitute a separate… —Tom Stoppard A bed, a telephone, the cord to the world beyond the womb . . .
She leaps into the alien heart of the passerby, the drunk, the girl who spouts Freudian talk over Szechuan food. She is part herself,
The great bed of the world arching over graves over Babi Yar with its multitude of bones, with battalions of screams
Regret is the young girl who sits… & stares at her hands. They are bluer than shadows in sno… They are bloodless as fear. Her fingernail moons are white.
The cover of the book is astral violet, & within it are poems, most of them
I hear you will not fall in love w… because I come without a guarantee… because someday I may depart at wh… and leave you desolate, abandoned,… If that’s the case, what use to be…
For Jennifer Josephy On cold days it is easy to be reasonable, to button the mouth against kisses… dust the breasts
I want to understand the steep thi… that climbs ladders in your throat… I can’t make sense of you. Everywhere I look you’re there— a vast landmark, a volcano