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Frank Bidart

If I Could Mourn Like a Mourning Dove

It is what recurs that we believe,
your face not at one moment looking
sideways up at me anguished or
 
elate, but the old words welling up by
gravity rearranged:
two weeks before you died in
 
pain worn out, after my usual casual sign-off
with All my love, your simple
solemn My love to you, Frank.

#AmericanWriters

Autres oeuvres par Frank Bidart...
California Plush

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At first I felt shame because I h… through the door marked Your Deat… Not a valuable word written unsteeped in your death. You are the ruin whose arm encircl…
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If See No End in Is

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For the Twentieth Century

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the remnant of a vast, oceanic bruise (wound delivered early and… was in you purity and sweetness self-gathered, CHOSEN *
The Fourth Hour of the Night

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What I hope (when I hope) is that… see each other again,— . . . and again reach the VEIN in which we loved each other . . It existed. It existed.
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What none knows is when, not if. Now that your life nears its end when you turn back what you see is ruin. You think, It is a priso… it is a vast resonating chamber in
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He's still young—; thirty, but loo… or does he? . . . In the eyes and… turning in the mirror, he saw his… puffy; angry; bewildered . . . Man… now, when he stares there, he gets…
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(Dante, Vita Nuova) To all those driven berserk or hum… this is offered, for I need help deciphering my dream. When we love our lord is LOVE.
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The planet turns there without you… Exiled by death you cannot touch it. Weird joy to watch postu… lived out and discarded, something… inside us always craving to become…



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