#AmericanWriters
Father studied theology through th… And this was exam time. Mother knitted. I sat quietly wit… Full of pictures. Night fell. My hands grew cold touching the fa…
O crows circling over my head and… I admit to being, at times, Suddenly, and without the slightes… Exceedingly happy. On a morning otherwise sunless,
The obvious is difficult To prove. Many prefer The hidden. I did, too. I listened to the trees. They had a secret
The night still frightens you. You know it is interminable And of vast, unimaginable dimensio… “That’s because His insomnia is p… You’ve read some mystic say.
You must come to them sideways In rooms webbed in shadow, Sneak a view of their emptiness Without them catching A glimpse of you in return.
Green Buddhas On the fruit stand. We eat the smile And spit out the teeth.
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.
They arrive inside They object at evening. There’s no one to meet them. The lamps they carry Cast their shadows
On the first page of my dreambook It’s always evening In an occupied country. Hour before the curfew. A small provincial city.
Here come my night thoughts On crutches, Returning from studying the heaven… What they thought about Stayed the same,
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.
Your mother carried you Out of the smoking ruins of a buil… And set you down on this sidewalk Like a doll bundled in burnt rags, Where you now stood years later
The brightly-painted horse Had a boy’s face, And four small wheels Under his feet, Plus a long string
A world’s disappearing. Little street, You were too narrow, Too much in the shade already. You had only one dog,
Executioner happy to explain How his wristwatch works As he shadows me on the street. I call him that because he is grim… And wears black.