#AmericanWriters
While I think of them they are gr… after the distances they have foll… all the way to the end for the fir… tracing a memory they did not have until they set out to remember it
My friend says I was not a good s… you understand I say yes I understand he says I did not go to see my parents very often you k…
At the last minute a word is waiti… not heard that way before and not… repeated or ever be remembered one that always had been a househo… used in speaking of the ordinary
So gradual in those summers was th… of the age it seemed that the long… when the stars faded over the moun… leaving us even as the birds woke… glittered in the webs it appeared…
How long ago the day is when at last I look at it with the time it has taken to be there still in it now in the transparent light
In the cards and at the bend in th… we never saw you in the womb and in the crossfire in the numbers whatever you had your hand in
Matches among other things that we… never would be lying high in a cool blue box that opened in other hands and the… bodies clean and smooth blue heads…
The friends have gone home far up… of that river into whose estuary the man from England sailed in his… in time to catch sight of the late… furring in black the remotest edge…
Moored to the same ring: The hour, the darkness and I, Our compasses hooded like falcons. Now the memory of you comes aching… With a wash of broken bits which n…
By this part of the century few ar… in the animals for they are not th… of them served on plates and the p… are sounds of shadows that possess… there is still game for the pleasu…
Whenever I go there everything is… The stamps on the bandages the tit… Of the professors of water The portrait of Glare the reasons… The white mourning
Listen with the night falling we are sayi… we are stopping on the bridges to… we are running out of the glass ro… with our mouths full of food to lo…
It was a late book given up for lo… again and again with its sentences bare at last and phrases that seem… revealing what had been there the… the poems of daylight after the da…
When you go away the wind clicks a… The painters work all day but at s… Showing the black walls The clock goes back to striking th… That has no place in the years
Gray whale Now that we are sinding you to Th… That great god Tell him That we who follow you invented fo…