#AmericanWriters
This last continent Still to be discovered. My hand is dreaming, is building Its ship. For crew it takes A pack of bones, for food
The obvious is difficult To prove. Many prefer The hidden. I did, too. I listened to the trees. They had a secret
A New Version: 1980 What is that little black thing I… in the white? Walt Whitman One
Here come my night thoughts On crutches, Returning from studying the heaven… What they thought about Stayed the same,
As an ant is powerless Against a raised boot, And only has an instant To have a bright idea or two. The black boot so polished,
The brightly-painted horse Had a boy’s face, And four small wheels Under his feet, Plus a long string
With only his dim lantern To tell him where he is And every time a mountain Of fresh corpses to load up Take them to the other side
Where the path to the lake twists… A puff of dust, the kind bare feet… Is what I saw in the dying light, Night swooping down everywhere els… A low branch heavy with leaves
They arrive inside They object at evening. There’s no one to meet them. The lamps they carry Cast their shadows
How much death works, No one knows what a long Day he puts in. The little Wife always alone Ironing death’s laundry.
Every morning I forget how it is. I watch the smoke mount In great strides above the city. I belong to no one. Then, I remember my shoes,
To find clues where there are none… That’s my job now, I said to the Dictionary on my desk. The world… My window has grown illegible, And so has the clock on the wall.
Shoes, secret face of my inner lif… Two gaping toothless mouths, Two partly decomposed animal skins Smelling of mice-nests. My brother and sister who died at…
Boss of all bosses of the universe… Mr. know-it-all, wheeler-dealer, w… And whatever else you’re good at. Go ahead, shuffle your zeros tonig… Dip in ink the comets’ tails.
The truth is dark under your eyeli… What are you going to do about it? The birds are silent; there’s no o… All day long you’ll squint at the… When the wind blows you’ll shiver…