#Americans #Jews #Women
There is a white wood house near… in whose garden the nightingale st… Though Keats is dead, the bird wh… returns with melodies, on easeful… A lock of hair the poet’s love rec…
‘Why do you have stripes in your forehead, Mama? Are you
Smoke, it is all smoke in the throat of eternity. . . . For centuries, the air was full of… Whistling up chimneys on their spiky brooms
You open to me a little, then grow afraid and close again, a small boy
Exploring each other’s depths, that surge of connection which makes the world seem sane,
Nobody believes in love– not even me. Love is the thing you wait to end.
Could I unthink you, little heart, what would I do? throw you out with last night’s garbage,
We used to strike sparks off each other. Our eyes would meet or our hands, & the blue lightning of love
‘Hotel rooms constitute a separate… —Tom Stoppard A bed, a telephone, the cord to the world beyond the womb . . .
Dear Colette, I want to write to you about being a woman for that is what you write to me. I want to tell you how your face
You hate the telephone but will not see me face to face so I am left beseeching you
Regret is the young girl who sits… & stares at her hands. They are bluer than shadows in sno… They are bloodless as fear. Her fingernail moons are white.
The lover in these poems is me; the doctor, Love. He appears
Spring, rainbows, ordinary miracles about which nothing new can be said. The stars on a clear night
Because she wants to touch him, she moves away. Because she wants to talk to him, she keeps silent. Because she wants to kiss him,