#AmericanWriters
Haunched like a faun, he hooed From grove of moon—glint and fen—f… Until all owls in the twigged fore… Flapped black to look and brood On the call this man made.
Color floods to the spot, dull pur… The rest of the body is all washed… The color of pearl. In a pit of rock The sea sucks obsessively,
Who are these people at the bridge… The rector, the midwife, the sexto… In my sleeveless summery dress I… And they are all gloved and covere… They are smiling and taking out ve…
We came over the moor—top Through air streaming and green—li… Stone farms foundering in it, Valleys of grass altering In a light neither dawn
That lofty monarch, Monarch Mind, Blue-blooded in coarse country rei… Though he bedded in ermine, gorged… Pure Philosophy his love engrosse… While subjects hungered, empty-pur…
My father kept a vaulted conch By two bronze bookends of ships in… And as I listened its cold teeth… With voices of that ambiguous sea Old Böcklin missed, who held a sh…
You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo…
A Villanelle The sting of bees took away my fat… who walked in a swarming shroud of… and scorned the tick of the fallin… Lightning licked in a yellow lathe…
Nobody in the lane, and nothing, n… Blackberries on either side, thoug… A blackberry alley, going down in… Somewhere at the end of it, heavin… Big as the ball of my thumb, and d…
They are always with us, the thin… Meager of dimension as the gray pe… On a movie—screen. They Are unreal, we say: It was only in a movie, it was onl…
The figs on the fig tree in the ya… Green, also, the grapes on the gre… Shading the brickred porch tiles. The money’s run out. How nature, sensing this, compound…
Compelled by calamity’s magnet They loiter and stare as if the ho… Burnt—out were theirs, or as if th… Some scandal might any minute ooze From a smoke—choked closet into li…
Up here among the gull cries we stroll through a maze of pale red-mottled relics, shells, claws as if it were summer still. That season has turned its back.
Always in the middle of a kiss Came the profane stimulus to cough… Always from teh pulpit during serv… Leaned the devil prompting you to… Behind mock—ceremony of your grief
Your brother will trim my hedges! They darken your house, Nosy grower, Mole on my shoulder, To be scratched absently,