#AmericanWriters
I’ve got to tell you how I love you always I think of it on grey mornings with death in my mouth the tea
The eager note on my door said “C… call when you get in!" so I quickl… a few tangerines into my overnight… straightened my eyelids and should… headed straight for the door. It…
Mothers of America let your kids go to the movies get them out of the house so they… know what you’re up to it’s true that fresh air is good f…
Have you forgotten what we were li… when we were still first rate and the day came fat with an apple… it’s no use worrying about Time but we did have a few tricks up ou…
When I was a child I played by myself in a corner of the schoolyard all alone. I hated dolls and I
Am I to become profligate as if I… as if I were French? Each time my heart is broken it ma… (and how the same names keep recur… list!), but one of these days ther…
It is 12:20 in New York a Friday three days after Bastille day, yes it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshin… because I will get off the 4:19 in… at 7:15 and then go straight to di…
You do not always know what I am… Last night in the warm spring air… blazing my tirade against someone… interest me, it was love for you that set m…
You are so serious, as if a glacier spoke in your ear or you had to walk through the great gate of Kiev to get to the living room.
How funny you are today New York like Ginger Rogers in Swingtime and St. Bridget’s steeple leaning… here I have just jumped out of a b… (I got tired of D-days) and blue…
Melancholy breakfast blue overhead blue underneath the silent egg thinks and the toaster’s electrical ear waits
Alone at night in the wet city the country’s wit is not memorable. The wind has blown
Wet heat drifts through the aftern… like a campus dog, a fraternity gh… waiting to stay home from football… The arches are empty clear to the… Except for the leaves: those lashe…
Well now, hold on maybe I won’t go to sleep at all and it’ll be a beautiful white nig… or else I’ll collapse completely from nerves and be calm
It is almost three I sit at the marble top sorting poems, miserable the little lamp glows feebly I don’t glow at all