#Americans
Early March. The cold beach deserted. My kids home in a bare house, bundled up and listening to rock music pirated from England. My wife
When Nellie, my old pussy cat, was still in her prime, she would sit behind me as I wrote, and when the line got too long she’d reach
In borrowed boots which don’t fit and an old olive greatcoat, I hunt the corn-fed rabbit, game fowl, squirrel, starved bobca… anything small. I bring down
The long lines of diesels groan toward evening carrying off the breath of the living. The face of your house
A solitary apartment house, the la… before the boulevard ends and a du… winds its slow way out of town. On… through the dusty windows Karen be… the elegant couples walking arm in…
Everyone loves a story. Let’s beg… We can fill it with careful rooms… with things—tables, chairs,… closed to hide tiny beds where chi… or big drawers that yawn open to r…
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 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…
Words go on travelling from voice to voice while the phones are stil… and the wires hum in the cold. Now and then dark winter birds settle slowly on the crossbars, where hud…
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…
The sour daylight cracks through m… “Stephan! Stephan!” The rattling… Comes on a trot, the cold tray in… Toast whitening with oleo, brown t… Yesterday’s napkins, and an opened…
Remember how unimportant they seemed, growing loosely in the open fields we crossed on the way to school. We would carve wooden swords
The first time I drank gin I thought it must be hair tonic. My brother swiped the bottle from a guy whose father owned a drug store that sold booze
Someone was calling someone; now they’ve stopped. Beyond the gl… the rose vines quiver as in a light wind, but there is none: I hear nothing. The moments pass,
“Hill of Jews,” says one, named for a cemetery long gone."Hill of Jove," says another, and maybe Jove stalked here