My Fathers, The Baltic (Philip Levine Poems)
Along the strand stones, busted shells, wood scraps, bottle tops, dimpled and stainless beer cans. Something began here a century ...
Along the strand stones, busted shells, wood scraps, bottle tops, dimpled and stainless beer cans. Something began here a century ...
Four bright steel crosses, universal joints, plucked out of the burlap sack -- "the heart of the drive train," the ...
The river rises and the rains keep coming. My Papa says it can't flood for the water can run away ...
"...his poems that no one reads anymore become dust, wind, nothing, like the insolent colored shirt he bought to die ...
Iron growing in the dark, it dreams all night long and will not work. A flower that hates God, a ...
Is it long as a noodle or fat as an egg? Is it lumpy like a potato or ringed like ...
Seven years ago I went into the High Sierras stunned by the desire to die. For hours I stared into ...
Something has fallen wordlessly and holds still on the black driveway. You find it, like a jewel, among the empty ...
Earth and water without form, change, or pause: as if the third day had not come, this calm norm of ...
The air lay soffly on the green fur of the almond, it was April and I said, I begin again ...
The last of day gathers in the yellow parlor and drifts like fine dust across the face of the gilt-framed ...
She wakens early remembering her father rising in the dark lighting the stove with a match scraped on the floor. ...
I bought a dollar and a half's worth of small red potatoes, took them home, boiled them in their jackets ...
Last night, again, I dreamed my children were back at home, small boys huddled in their separate beds, and I ...
When the Lieutenant of the Guardia de Asalto heard the automatic go off, he turned and took the second shot ...
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