You, ReaderI wonder how you are going to feelwhen you find outthat I wrote this instead of you, that it was I who got up earlyto sit in the itchenand mention with a penthe rain-soaked windows,the ivy...
The whole idea of it makes me feellike I'm coming down with something,something worse than any stomach acheor the headaches I get from reading in bad light--a kind of measles of the spirit,a mumps of...
If an artist is driven primarily by social responsibility, I think the art probably suffers because, again, just as leadership has a rather defined end point or purpose, social responsibility would se...
When i believe in everything, I could not seethe actors semicircled around a studio microphoneflipping the pages of scripts in unison.I only heard the voices, resonant, electric, adult,accusing each o...
Is Death miles away from this house,Reaching for a window in CincinnatiOr breathing down the neck of a lost hikerIn British Columbia?Is he too busy making arrangments, Tampering with air brakes, Scatt...
The boy at the far end of the train car kept looking behind him as if he were afraid or expecting someone
It seems only yesterday I used to believethere was nothing under my skin but light.If you cut me I could shine.But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,I skin my knees. I bleed.
It was getting late in the year, the sky had been low and overcast for days, and I was drinking tea in a glassy room with a woman without children, a gate through which no one had entered the world. S...
Some honor Cummings as the granddaddy of all American innovators in poetry and ascribe to him a diverse progeny that includes virtually any poet who considers the page a field and allows silence to be...
A lasting marriage, they say, is one where the two reach for different sections of the Sunday paper. Me, I go right for the obituaries, just like those very elderly characters in Muriel Spark's spooky...
On Not Finding You at HomeUsually you appear at the front doorwhen you hear my steps on the gravel,but today the door was closed,not a wisp of pale smoke from the chimney.I peered into a windowbut the...
Would pass in the street, mostly people whose existence I did not believe in,
¨Yet the one I think of most often_¨
Now I sit down at the desk, ready to begin.I am entirely pure: nothing but a skeleton at a typewriter.I should mention that sometimes I leave my penis on. I find it difficult to ignore the temptation....
… I am the sound of rain on the roof.I also happen to be the shooting star,the evening paper blowing down an alley,and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.I am also the moon in the treesand t...
This is the middle. Things have had time to get complicated, messy, really. Nothing is simple anymore... This is the thick of things.So much is crowded into the middle—...too much to name, too much to...
Just as the hare is zipping across the finish line,the tortoise has stopped once againby the roadside,this time to stick out his neckand nibble a bit of sweet grass,unlike the previous timewhen he was...
You trip over a word while carryinga tray of vocabulary out to the poolonly to discover that broken glassis a good topic.
It is time to float on the waters of the night. Time to wrap my arms around this book and press it to my chest, life preserver in a sea of unremarkable men and women, anonymous faces on the street, a...
I see all of us reading ourselves away from ourselves, straining in circles of light to find more light until the line of words becomes a trail of crumbs that we follow across a page of fresh snow
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