#Americans #Jews #Women
He still wears the glass skin of c… Under his hands, the stones turn m… His eyes are knives. Who froze the ground to his feet? Who locked his mouth into an horiz…
You sleep in the darkness, you with the back I love & the gift of sleeping through my noisy nights of poetry. I have taken other men into my tho…
Most beautiful of poisons, border-plant, wearing your small green cowl, little friar, little murderer, aconitine flows
Sweet muse with bitter milk, I have lain between your breasts, put my ear
The whole world is flat & I am round. Even women avert their eyes, & men, embarrassed by the messy way
Because you did, I too arrange fl… Watching the pistils just like ins… And the hard, red flesh of the pet… Widening beneath my eyes. They mo… Of clocks, seeming not to move exc…
We used to strike sparks off each other. Our eyes would meet or our hands, & the blue lightning of love
Books which are stitched up the ce… Books on the beach with sunglass-c… Books about food with pictures of… Books about baking bread with brow… Books about long-haired Frenchmen…
Meathooks, notebooks, the whole city sky palely flaming & spectral bombs hitting that patch of river I see from my eastern window.
I pass to the other side of the pa… —Pablo Neruda On the other side of the page where the last days go, where the lost poems go,
If you ask him he will talk for ho… how at fourteen he hammered signs,… raw with cold, and later painted b… in ladies’ boudoirs; how he played… for two weeks in jail, and lived o…
We used to meet on this corner in the same wind. It fought us up the hill to your house,
There is only one story: he loved her, then stopped loving her, while she did not stop loving him.
A man so sick that the sexual soup cannot save him - the chicken soup of sex which cures everything: tossed mane of noodles,
People who live by the sea understand eternity. They copy the curves of the waves, their hearts beat with the tides, & the saltiness of their blood