#Americans
2 a.m. December, and still no mon rising from the river. My mother home from the beer garden
Unknown faces in the street And winter coming on. I Stand in the last moments of The city, no more a child, Only a man, —one who has
This poem has a door, a locked doo… and curtains drawn against the day… but at night the lights come on, o… in each room, and the neighbors sw… they hear music and the sound of d…
We live here because the houses are clean, the lawns run right to the street and the streets run away. No one walks here.
Out of burlap sacks, out of bearin… Out of black bean and wet slate br… Out of the acids of rage, the cand… Out of creosote, gasoline, drive s… They Lion grow.
This has nothing to do with war or the end of the world. She dreams there are gray starlings on the winter lawn and the buds of next year’s oranges alongside
He tells me in Bangkok he’s robbe… Because he’s white; in London bec… In Barcelona, Jew; in Paris, Ara… Everywhere and at all times, and h… He holds up seven thick little fin…
If the shoe fell from the other fo… who would hear? If the door opened onto a pure darkness and it was no dream? If your life ended the way a book ends
It has been raining now since long before dawn, and the windows of the Arab coffee house of Delra… are steamed over and no one looks in or out. If I were on my way
“I’ve been where it hurts.” the K… He becomes Sierra Kid I passed Slimgullion, Morgan Min… Camp Seco, and the rotting Lode. Dark walls of sugar pine —,
First light. This misted field is the world, that man slipping the greased bolt back and forth, that man tunneled with blood
My brother comes home from work and climbs the stairs to our room. I can hear the bed groan and his s… one by one. You can have it, he sa… The moonlight streams in the windo…
“Hill of Jews,” says one, named for a cemetery long gone."Hill of Jove," says another, and maybe Jove stalked here
My father stands in the warm eveni… on the porch of my first house. I am four years old and growing ti… I see his head among the stars, the glow of his cigarette, redder
Green fingers holding the hillside, mustard whipping in the sea winds, one blood-bright poppy breathing in