#AmericanWriters
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...
Green Buddhas On the fruit stand. We eat the smile And spit out the teeth.
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
Where the path to the lake twists… A puff of dust, the kind bare feet… Is what I saw in the dying light, Night swooping down everywhere els… A low branch heavy with leaves
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,
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
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
Here come my night thoughts On crutches, Returning from studying the heaven… What they thought about Stayed the same,
Extraordinary efforts are being ma… To hide things from us, my friend. Some stay up into the wee hours To search their souls. Others undress each other in darke…
Not a peep out of you now After the bedlam early this mornin… Are you begging pardon of me Hidden up there among the leaves, Or are your brains momentarily ove…
There was a melon fresh from the g… So ripe the knife slurped As it cut it into six slices. The children were going back to sc… Their mother, passing out paper pl…
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.
A world’s disappearing. Little street, You were too narrow, Too much in the shade already. You had only one dog,
A New Version: 1980 What is that little black thing I… in the white? Walt Whitman One
How much death works, No one knows what a long Day he puts in. The little Wife always alone Ironing death’s laundry.