Gin (Philip Levine Poems)
The first time I drank gin I thought it must be hair tonic. My brother swiped the bottle from a ...
The first time I drank gin I thought it must be hair tonic. My brother swiped the bottle from a ...
from St. Ambrose He fears the tiger standing in his way. The tiger takes its time, it smiles and growls. ...
Green fingers holding the hillside, mustard whipping in the sea winds, one blood-bright poppy breathing in and out. The odor ...
Something has fallen wordlessly and holds still on the black driveway. You find it, like a jewel, among the empty ...
Some days I catch a rhythm, almost a song in my own breath. I'm alone here in Brooklyn Heights, late ...
You pull over to the shoulder of the two-lane road and sit for a moment wondering where you were going ...
First light. This misted field is the world, that man slipping the greased bolt back and forth, that man tunneled ...
In Havana in 1948 I ate fried dog believing it was Peking duck. Later, in Tampa I bunked with an ...
A good man is seized by the police and spirited away. Months later someone brags that he shot him once ...
The doctor fingers my bruise. "Magnificent," he says, "black at the edges and purple cored." Seated, he spies for clues, ...
Words go on travelling from voice to voice while the phones are still and the wires hum in the cold. ...
A solitary apartment house, the last one before the boulevard ends and a dusty road winds its slow way out ...
Lately the wind burns the last leaves and evening comes too late to be of use, lately I learned that ...
Shake out my pockets! Harken to the call Of that calm voice that makes no sound at all! Take of ...
We stripped in the first warm spring night and ran down into the Detroit River to baptize ourselves in the ...
"Hill of Jews," says one, named for a cemetery long gone."Hill of Jove," says another, and maybe Jove stalked here ...
The river rises and the rains keep coming. My Papa says it can't flood for the water can run away ...
from an officer's diary during the last war I The sour daylight cracks through my sleep-caked lids. "Stephan! Stephan!" The ...
In Lake Forest, a suburb of Chicago, a woman sits at her desk to write me a letter. She holds ...
A man roams the streets with a basket of freestone peaches hollering, "Peaches, peaches, yellow freestone peaches for sale." My ...
THE DREAM This has nothing to do with war or the end of the world. She dreams there are gray ...
On March 1, 1958, four deserters from the French Army of North Africa, August Rein, Henri Bruette, Jack Dauville, & ...
after Juan Ramon A child wakens in a cold apartment. The windows are frosted. Outside he hears words rising from ...
All afternoon my father drove the country roads between Detroit and Lansing. What he was looking for I never learned, ...
Early March. The cold beach deserted. My kids home in a bare house, bundled up and listening to rock music ...
Seven years ago I went into the High Sierras stunned by the desire to die. For hours I stared into ...
Last night, again, I dreamed my children were back at home, small boys huddled in their separate beds, and I ...
"I've been where it hurts." the Kid He becomes Sierra Kid I passed Slimgullion, Morgan Mine, Camp Seco, and the ...
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