#AmericanWriters
Behind him the hotdogs split and d… On the public grills, and the ochr… Gas tanks, factory stacks– that la… Of imperfections his bowels were p… Rippled and pulsed in the glassy u…
Pure? What does it mean? The tongues of hell Are dull, dull as the triple Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus Who wheezes at the gate. Incapabl…
What is this, behind this veil, is… It is shimmering, has it breasts,… I am sure it is unique, I am sure… When I am quiet at my cooking I f… ‘Is this the one I am too appear…
They’re out of the dark’s ragbag,… Moles dead in the pebbled rut, Shapeless as flung gloves, a few f… Blue suede a dog or fox has chewed… One, by himself, seemed pitiable e…
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…
The black bull bellowed before the… The sea, till that day orderly, Hove up against Bendylaw. The queen in the mulberry arbor st… Stiff as a queen on a playing card…
Meadows of gold dust. The silver Currents of the Connecticut fan And meander in bland pleatings und… River-verge farms where rye-heads… All’s polished to a dull luster
This is a dark house, very big. I made it myself, Cell by cell from a quiet corner, Chewing at the grey paper, Oozing the glue drops,
They are the last romantics, these… Upside—down hearts of light tippin… And the fingers, taken in by their… Grown milky, almost clear, like th… It is touching, the way they’ll ig…
It beguiles’ This little Odyssey In pink and lavender Over a surface of gently– Graded turquoise tiles
First frost, and I walk among the… Of the Greek beauties you brought Off Europe’s relic heap To sweeten your neck of the New Y… Soon each white lady will be board…
I know the bottom, she says. I kn… It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been the… Is it the sea you hear in me, Its dissatisfactions?
Your brother will trim my hedges! They darken your house, Nosy grower, Mole on my shoulder, To be scratched absently,
Cold on my narrow cot I lie and in sorrow look through my window—square of black: figured in the midnight sky, a mosaic of stars
Take the general mumble, blunt as the faceless gut of an anonymous clam, vernacular as the strut of a slug or a small preamble