(1979)
#AmericanWriters
Each day with so much ceremony begins, with birds, with bells, with whistles from a factory; such white—gold skies our eyes first open on, such brilliant wall…
The art of losing isn’t hard to ma… so many things seem filled with th… to be lost that their loss is no d… Lose something every day. Accept… of lost door keys, the hour badly…
The tumult in the heart keeps asking questions. And then it stops and undertakes t… in the same tone of voice. No one could tell the difference.
Wasted, wasted minutes that couldn… minutes of a barbaric condescensio… —Stare out the bathroom window at… at their dark needles, accretions… woodenly crystallized, and where t…
Here is a coast; here is a harbor; here, after a meager diet of horiz… impractically shaped and—who knows… sad and harsh beneath their frivol… with a little church on top of one…
To the sagging wharf few ships could come. The population numbered two giants, an idiot, a dwarf, a gentle storekeeper
This is the time of year when almost every night the frail, illegal fire balloons a… Climbing the mountain height, rising toward a saint
It is so peaceful on the ceiling! It is the Place de la Concorde. The little crystal chandelier is off, the fountain is in the dar… Not a soul is in the park.
Oh, why should a hen have been run over on West 4th Street in the middle of summer? She was a white hen
At four o’clock in the gun-metal blue dark we hear the first crow of the firs… just below the gun-metal blue window
Here, above, cracks in the buildings are filled… The whole shadow of Man is only a… It lies at his feet like a circle… and he makes an inverted pin, the…
Oh, but it is dirty! —this little filling station, oil—soaked, oil—permeated to a disturbing, over—all black translucency.
In your next letter I wish you’d… where you are going and what you a… how are the plays and after the pl… what other pleasures you’re pursui… taking cabs in the middle of the n…
Although it is a cold evening, down by one of the fishhouses an old man sits netting, his net, in the gloaming almost in… a dark purple—brown,
At six o’clock we were waiting for… waiting for coffee and the charita… that was going to be served from a… —like kings of old, or like a mira… It was still dark. One foot of th…