#AmericanWriters
On a darkening planet speeding toward our death, we pierce a rosy cloud & hit clean air,
Cement up to the neck & my head packed with unsaid words. A gullet full of pebbles, a mouth
Sometimes the poem doesn’t want to come; it hides from the poet like a playful cat who has run
There is only one story: he loved her, then stopped loving her, while she did not stop loving him.
Rising in the morning like warm bread, from a bed in America, the aroma
At the edge of the body there is said to be a flaming halo– yellow, red, blue or pure white,
Little egg, little nub, full complement of fingers, toes, little rose blooming
Your slit so like mine: the woman of it, the warm womanwide of thigh, & the comfort of it– knowing your nipples like mine,
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. .…
Bobbing in the waters of the womb, little godhead, ten toes, ten fing… & infinite hope, sails upside down through the worl… My bones, I know, are only a cage
I am not interested in my body– the part that stinks & rots & brings forth life,
Could I unthink you, little heart, what would I do? throw you out with last night’s garbage,
I pass to the other side of the pa… —Pablo Neruda On the other side of the page where the last days go, where the lost poems go,
Dearest man-in-the-moon, ever since our lunch of cheese & moonjuice on the far side of the sun, I have walked the craters of New…
Endless duplication of lives and o… —Theodore Roethke I have known the imperial power of… the awesome indifference of recept… I have been intimidated by desk &a…