#AmericanWriters
I like being in your apartment, an… As in the woods I wouldn’t want t… or change the play of sun and shad… The yellow kitchen stool belongs r… against white plaster. I haven’t u…
Little lion face I stopped to pick among the mass of thick succulent blooms, the twice streaked flanges of your silk
Fruit without a stone, its shiny pulp is clear green. Inside, tiny black microdot seeds. Skin the color of khakiImagine a shaggy brown-green pelt
We move by means of our mud bumps. We bubble as do the dead but more… The products of excruciating purge… we are squeezed out thin hard and… If we exude a stench it is petrifi…
What does love look like? We know the shape of death. Death is a clo… immense and awesome. At first a li… is lifted from the eye of light: there is a clap of sound, a white…
Stop bleeding said the kn… I would if I could said… Stop bleeding you make me… I’m sorry said the cut. Stop or I will sink in f…
Beards of water some of them have. Others are blowing whistles of wat… Faces astonished that constant wat… jumps from their mouths.
In the pond in the park all things are doubled: Long buildings hang and wriggle gently. Chimneys are bent legs bouncing
The binocular owl, fastened to a limb like a lantern all night long, sees where all
Women Or they should be should be pedestals little horses moving those wooden pedestals sweet
A smudge for the horizon that, on a clear day, shows the hard edge of hills and buildings on the other coast. Anchored boats all head one way:
A mouth. Can blow or breathe, be a funnel, or Hello. A grass blade or a cut. A question seated. And a proud bird’s neck.
Blue, but you are Rose, too, and buttermilk, but with blood dots showing through. A little salty your white nape boy-wide. Glinting hairs
Body my house my horse my hound what will I do when you are fallen Where will I sleep
The popcorn is greasy, and I forg… A pill that’s a bomb inside the st… The Embassy blows up. Eructations… cauliflowers giganticize into moti… screen is orange, is crackling fle…