#AmericanWriters
How much death works, No one knows what a long Day he puts in. The little Wife always alone Ironing death’s laundry.
We don’t even take time To come up for air. We keep our mouths full and busy Eating bread and cheese And smooching in between.
With only his dim lantern To tell him where he is And every time a mountain Of fresh corpses to load up Take them to the other side
The one who had been whispering All along in this empty theater And whose voice I just heard— Or imagined I did Distracted as I was by my own tho…
This last continent Still to be discovered. My hand is dreaming, is building Its ship. For crew it takes A pack of bones, for food
The mail truck goes down the coast Carrying a single letter. At the end of a long pier The bored seagull lifts a leg now… And forgets to put it down.
A New Version: 1980 What is that little black thing I… in the white? Walt Whitman One
I liked my little hole, Its window facing a brick wall. Next door there was a piano. A few evenings a month a crippled old man came to play
Where it says snow read teeth-marks of a virgin Where it says knife read you passed through my bones like a police-whistle
Millions were dead; everybody was… I stayed in my room. The Presiden… Spoke of war as of a magic love po… My eyes were opened in astonishmen… In a mirror my face appeared to me
Of the light in my room: Its mood swings, Dark-morning glooms, Summer ecstasies. Spider on the wall,
Great are the Hittites. Their ears have mice and mice have… Their dogs bury themselves and lea… To guard the house. A single weed… Until the spiderwebs spread over t…
Shoes, secret face of my inner lif… Two gaping toothless mouths, Two partly decomposed animal skins Smelling of mice-nests. My brother and sister who died at…
Here come my night thoughts On crutches, Returning from studying the heaven… What they thought about Stayed the same,
Fingers in an overcoat pocket. Fingers sticking out of a black leather glove. The nails chewed raw. One play is called “Thieves’ Market,” another “Night in a Dime Museum.” The fingers w...