#AmericanWriters
Father studied theology through th… And this was exam time. Mother knitted. I sat quietly wit… Full of pictures. Night fell. My hands grew cold touching the fa…
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
You give the appearance of listeni… To my thoughts, o trees, Bent over the road I am walking On a late summer evening When every one of you is a steep s…
The mail truck goes down the coast Carrying a single letter. At the end of a long pier The bored seagull lifts a leg now… And forgets to put it down.
A world’s disappearing. Little street, You were too narrow, Too much in the shade already. You had only one dog,
On the first page of my dreambook It’s always evening In an occupied country. Hour before the curfew. A small provincial city.
There was a melon fresh from the g… So ripe the knife slurped As it cut it into six slices. The children were going back to sc… Their mother, passing out paper pl…
Green Buddhas On the fruit stand. We eat the smile And spit out the teeth.
And the one that’s got it in for y… Mister, that keeps taunting you In an old man’s morning wheeze Every time you so much as glance a… Or blurt something in your defense…
Here come my night thoughts On crutches, Returning from studying the heaven… What they thought about Stayed the same,
Extraordinary efforts are being ma… To hide things from us, my friend. Some stay up into the wee hours To search their souls. Others undress each other in darke…
How much death works, No one knows what a long Day he puts in. The little Wife always alone Ironing death’s laundry.
Great are the Hittites. Their ears have mice and mice have… Their dogs bury themselves and lea… To guard the house. A single weed… Until the spiderwebs spread over t…
A New Version: 1980 What is that little black thing I… in the white? Walt Whitman One