everything i have i feed the house he eats it up, starved money from readings paint yesterday he swallowed half a grant what i’d saved to fly out of the snow that eats his windows my lover is quite jealous of his mouth put it on the market he spits in his sleep as the…
Once there was an honest man. He was a well driller. His eyes had filled with the first two wells of his life and after he could see through the surface of the earth to water awaiting his rig, not with his eyes but something like memory already there. What others called imagination the well…
(—for Gary Wilson & in memorium: Kenneth Wilson, 1943-1977) The brutal shift: one minute present—then a week on the delicate liferaft of coma—and the next: past. You honestly begged for him a few more diamonds of breath, until the last luminant exhalation exhaled. Your brother gone and the long O sounds of your own…
i’m still thin and high on having the biopsy negative tho i don’t know where to go after the artists place in the trees The husband who will leave and leave until he can’t come home is back after the first time pleading lyn his nagging is a sticky lullaby i almost don’t hear thru…
He stood in the shadows as usual, as Charlotte had come to expect. He was a part, by now, of the quiet late afternoon street that gathered her in when the working day was over. It was dusk, early spring. The air was warmish, and as Charlotte rounded the corner she could smell the honeysuckle,…
Killing anything was pure accident. A dumb stalker, a worse shot—I went almost daily, to the woods. A favorite prey was slow and shallow: a brook. I’d say, as it moved languidly: Don’t move, you rascal! And when it did, of course, as it does, I’d shoot. I liked that: no wound, or at least…
First, let us move away, but leave behind us The grand piano, the Steuben glass, books and Phonograph records, what might distract us, And since this is a real journey—surrounded By stars and their shadows and what is beyond Them—we will not travel. We sit all day and night and watch the moths Eat our…
During the winter of 1955, Chris took courses at Columbia. He came from Indianapolis; New York stunned him. Knowing nothing, he took a room in a railroad flat uptown near school: one room, 11 x 7, bed with a defeated mattress. It was cheap, and he could use the kitchen along with the three other…
An especially forlorn specimen Answers a marriage ad On a street of compulsory misfortune One drizzly November afternoon Sorrow with its sidekicks and damsels In a diningroom with a pianola which the subway rattles from time to time A cup of tea with her eyelash floating in it Cakes the size and color of a…
No products in the cart.