#AmericanWriters
I am only leaving you for a handful of days but it feels as thought i will be gone forever the way the door closes
I married you for all the wrong re… charmed by your dangerous family h… by the innocent muscles, bulging l… weapons under your shirt, by your… the colors of painted scraps of su…
The gathering family throws shadows around us, it is the late afternoon Of the family. There is still enough light
I remember what my father told me: There is an age when you are most… He was just past fifty then, Was it something about the trees t… There is an age when you are most…
What we want is never simple. We move among the things we thought we wanted: a face, a room, an open book
When they taught me that what matt… was not the strict iambic line goo… over the page but the variations in that line and the tension produ… on the ear by the surprise of diff…
It was early May, I think a moment of lilac or dogwood when so many promises are made it hardly matters if a few are bro… My mother and father still hovered
When I taught you at eight to ride a bicycle, loping along beside you as you wobbled away
After Adam Zagajewski I am child to no one, mother to a… wife for the long haul. On fall days I am happy with my dying brethren, the leaves…
We invent our gods the way the Greeks did, in our own image’but magnified. Athena, the very mother of wisdom, squabbled with Poseidon
Perhaps the purpose of leaves is t… the verticality of trees which we… as if for the first time: row afte… yearning upwards. And since we wil… ourselves for so long, let us now…
Into the gravity of my life, the serious ceremonies of polish and paper and pen, has come this manic animal
January Contorted by wind, mere armatures for ice or snow, the trees resolve to endure for now,
When our cars touched When you lifted the hood of mine To see the intimate workings under… When we were bound together By a pulse of pure energy,
1. THE SACRIFICE On this tile the knife like a sickle-moon hangs in the painted air