#AmericanWriters
Open-mouthed, the baby god Immense, bald, though baby-headed, Cried out for the mother’s dug. The dry volcanoes cracked and spli… Sand abraded the milkless lip.
The text of this poem could not be…
In the Archæological Museum in C… coffin of the fourth century A.D.… of a woman, a mouse and a shrew. T… woman has been slightly gnawed. Rigged poker —stiff on her back
In the rectory garden on his eveni… Paced brisk Father Shawn. A cold… In black Novemeber. After a slidi… Dew stood in chill sweat on each s… Each thorn; spiring from wet earth…
Empty, I echo to the least footfa… Museum without statues, grand with… In my courtyard a fountain leaps a… Nun—hearted and blind to the world… Exhale their pallor like scent.
But I would rather be horizontal. I am not a tree with my root in th… Sucking up minerals and motherly l… So that each March I may gleam in… Nor am I the beauty of a garden b…
All right, let’s say you could tak… The way you’d crack a clock; you’d… Between steel palms of inclination… Observing the wreck of metal and r… This was a woman: her loves and st…
Since Christmas they have lived w… Guileless and clear, Oval soul—animals, Taking up half the space, Moving and rubbing on the silk
It is ten years, now, since we row… The sun flamed straight down that… That summer we wore black glasses… We were always crying, in our spar… In the two, huge, white, handsome…
Viciousness in the kitchen! The potatoes hiss. It is all Hollywood, windowless, The fluorescent light wincing on a… Coy paper strips for doors
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…
Grub-white mulberries redden among… I’ll go out and sit in white like… Doing nothing. July’s juice round… This park is fleshed with idiot pe… White catalpa flowers tower, toppl…
The photographic chamber of the ey… records bare painted walls, while… lays the chromium nerves of plumbi… such poverty assaults the ego; cau… naked in the merely actual room,
With white frost gone And all green dreams not worth muc… After a lean day’s work Time comes round for that foul slu… Mere bruit of her takes our street
Your clear eye is the one absolute… I want to fill it with color and d… The zoo of the new Whose names you meditate —— April snowdrop, Indian pipe,