#AmericanWriters
When Nellie, my old pussy cat, was still in her prime, she would sit behind me as I wrote, and when the line got too long she’d reach
The little girl won’t eat her sand… she lifts the bun and looks in, bu… coated with relish is always there… Her mother says, “Do it for mothe… Milk and relish and a hard bun tha…
In Lake Forest, a suburb of Chic… a woman sits at her desk to write me a letter. She holds a photograp… of me up to the light, one taken 17 years ago in a high school clas…
People sit numbly at the counter waiting for breakfast or service. Today it’s Hartford, Connecticut more than twenty-five years after the last death of Wallace Stevens…
The air lay soffly on the green fu… of the almond, it was April and I said, I begin again but my hands burned in the damp ea… the light ran between my fingers
“Hill of Jews,” says one, named for a cemetery long gone."Hill of Jove," says another, and maybe Jove stalked here
The new grass rising in the hills, the cows loitering in the morning… a dozen or more old browns hidden in the shadows of the cottonwoods beside the streambed. I go higher
He tells me in Bangkok he’s robbe… Because he’s white; in London bec… In Barcelona, Jew; in Paris, Ara… Everywhere and at all times, and h… He holds up seven thick little fin…
Numb, stiff, broken by no sleep, I keep night watch. Looking for signs to quiet fear, I creep closer to his bed and hear his breath come and go, holding
Take this quiet woman, she has bee… standing before a polishing wheel for over three hours, and she lack… twenty minutes before she can take a lunch break. Is she a woman?
Can you imagine the air filled wit… It was. The city was vanishing be… or was it earlier than that? I can… the light came from nowhere and we… This was years ago, before you wer…
My father and mother, two tiny fig… side by side, facing the clouds th… in from the Atlantic. August, '33… The whole weight of the rain to co… of all that has fallen on their ho…
The river rises and the rains keep coming. My Papa says it can’t flood for the water can run
Early March. The cold beach deserted. My kids home in a bare house, bundled up and listening to rock music pirated from England. My wife
One was kicked in the stomach until he vomited, then made to put back into his mouth what they had brought forth; when he tried to dr…