#AmericanWriters
What we want is never simple. We move among the things we thought we wanted: a face, a room, an open book
The door of winter is frozen shut, and like the bodies of long extinct animals, cars lie abandoned wherever
Finding a new poet is like finding a new wildflower out in the woods. You don’t see its name in the flower books, and nobody you tell believes
Perhaps the purpose of leaves is t… the verticality of trees which we… as if for the first time: row afte… yearning upwards. And since we wil… ourselves for so long, let us now…
Pierre Bonnard would enter the museum with a tube of paint in his pocket and a sable brush. Then violating the sanctity of one of his own frames
1. THE SACRIFICE On this tile the knife like a sickle-moon hangs in the painted air
January Contorted by wind, mere armatures for ice or snow, the trees resolve to endure for now,
We invent our gods the way the Greeks did, in our own image’but magnified. Athena, the very mother of wisdom, squabbled with Poseidon
My husband gives me an A for last night’s supper, an incomplete for my ironing, a B plus in bed. My son says I am average,
I want to write you a love poem as headlong as our creek after thaw when we stand
We think of hidden in a white dres… among the folded linens and sachet… of well-kept cupboards, or just ou… sending jellies and notes with no… to all the wondering Amherst neigh…
When I taught you at eight to ride a bicycle, loping along beside you as you wobbled away
I remember what my father told me: There is an age when you are most… He was just past fifty then, Was it something about the trees t… There is an age when you are most…
Because the shad are swimming in our waters now, breaching the skin of the river with their
I sing a song of the croissant and of the wily French who trick themselves daily back to the world