#AmericanWriters
Mud-mattressed under the sign of t… In a clench of blood, the sleep-ta… Gibbets with her curse the moon’s… ****-bearing Jack in his crackless… Hatched with a claret hogshead to…
This man makes a pseudonym And crawls behind it like a worm. This woman on the telephone Says she is a man, not a woman. The mask increases, eats the worm,
There is this white wall, above wh… Infinite, green, utterly untouchab… Angels swim in it, and the stars,… They are my medium. The sun dissolves on this wall, bl…
What was she doing when it blew in Over the seven hills, the red furr… Was she arranging cups? It is imp… Was she at the window, listening? In that valley the train shrieks e…
The smile of iceboxes annihilates… Such blue currents in the veins of… I hear her great heart purr. From her lips ampersands and perce… Exit like kisses.
Love set you going like a fat gold… The midwife slapped your footsoles… Took its place among the elements. Our voices echo, magnifying your a… In a drafty museum, your nakedness
My night sweats grease his breakfa… The same placard of blue fog is wh… With the same trees and headstones… Is that all he can come up with, The rattler of keys?
I can taste the tin of the sky ——t… Winter dawn is the color of metal, The trees stiffen into place like… All night I have dreamed of destr… An assembly—line of cut throats, a…
Up here among the gull cries we stroll through a maze of pale red-mottled relics, shells, claws as if it were summer still. That season has turned its back.
From under the crunch of my man’s… green oat-sprouts jut; he names a lapwing, starts rabbits… legging it most nimble to sprigged hedge of bramble,
Through fen and farmland walking With my own country love I saw slow flocked cows move White hulks on their day’s cruisin… Sweet grass sprang for their grazi…
A squeal of brakes. Or is it a birth cry? And here we are, hung out over the… Uncle, pants factory Fatso, milli… And you out cold beside me in your…
He was the bullman earlierm King of the dish, my lucky animal. Breathing was easy in his airy hol… The sun sat in his armpit. Nothing went moldy. The little in…
The word of a snail on the plate o… It is not mine. Do not accept it. Acetic acid in a sealed tin? Do not accept it. It is not genui… A ring of gold with the sun in it?
Meadows of gold dust. The silver Currents of the Connecticut fan And meander in bland pleatings und… River-verge farms where rye-heads… All’s polished to a dull luster