#AmericanWriters
Pierre Bonnard would enter the museum with a tube of paint in his pocket and a sable brush. Then violating the sanctity of one of his own frames
Finding a new poet is like finding a new wildflower out in the woods. You don’t see its name in the flower books, and nobody you tell believes
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…
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…
My husband gives me an A for last night’s supper, an incomplete for my ironing, a B plus in bed. My son says I am average,
Into the gravity of my life, the serious ceremonies of polish and paper and pen, has come this manic animal
When I taught you at eight to ride a bicycle, loping along beside you as you wobbled away
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…
The door of winter is frozen shut, and like the bodies of long extinct animals, cars lie abandoned wherever
What we want is never simple. We move among the things we thought we wanted: a face, a room, an open book
1. THE SACRIFICE On this tile the knife like a sickle-moon hangs in the painted air
The gathering family throws shadows around us, it is the late afternoon Of the family. There is still enough light
I want to write you a love poem as headlong as our creek after thaw when we stand
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…