#AmericanWriters
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.