#AmericanWriters
In your extended absence, you perm… use of earth, anticipating some return on investment. I must… failure in my assignment, principa… regarding the tomato plants.
In the empty field, in the morning… the body waits to be claimed. The spirit sits beside it, on a sm… nothing comes to give it form agai… Think of the body’s loneliness.
I regret bitterly The years of loving you in both Your presence and absence, regret The law, the vocation That forbid me to keep you, the se…
How can you say earth should give me joy? Each th… born is my burden; I cannot succee… with all of you. And you would like to dictate to m…
Little soul, little perpetually un… Do now as I bid you, climb The shelf-like branches of the spr… Wait at the top, attentive, like A sentry or look-out. He will be…
To say I’m without fear— It wouldn’t be true. I’m afraid of sickness, humiliatio… Like anyone, I have my dreams. But I’ve learned to hide them,
Even now this landscape is assembl… The hills darken. The oxen Sleep in their blue yoke, The fields having been Picked clean, the sheaves
As a man and woman make a garden between them like a bed of stars, here they linger in the summer evening and the evening turns
In our family, there were two sain… my aunt and my grandmother. But their lives were different. My grandmother’s was tranquil, eve… She was like a person walking in c…
It came to me one night as I was… that I had finished with those amo… to which I had long been a slave.… my heart murmured. To which I res… awaited us, hoping, at the same ti…
When I made you, I loved you. Now I pity you. I gave you all you needed: bed of earth, blanket of blue air— As I get further away from you
In the end, I made myself Known to your wife as A god would, in her own house, in Ithaca, a voice Without a body: she
Night covers the pond with its win… Under the ringed moon I can make… your face swimming among minnows a… echoing stars. In the night air the surface of the pond is metal.
Late December: my father and I are going to New York, to the cir… He holds me on his shoulders in the bitter win… scraps of white paper
Is it winter again, is it cold aga… didn’t Frank just slip on the ice, didn’t he heal, weren’t the spring… didn’t the night end, didn’t the melting ice