Once she had loved him. When had she stopped? She did not know.
On her sixty-second birthday Marge Olson got a call, not a gift.
I saw it on her face that day, a look like her heart would drift into the sky.
“Nothing does you so much harm as being in disgrace for lying.”
He’ll probably try to get her in the sack, just to stay in practice.
No, really, you could find nothing to say against it, it’s perfect.
Sometimes a story is like a beehive. Sometimes an idea is like a poem.
I know quite well that I’m still a beginner and have a long way to go.
Are these poems just cumbersome or a critique of cumbersomeness?
The noiseless trees, the insentient breezes that are not there.
Why is it I’m not happy? Where’s the flutter, where’s the excitement?
I shot it close to her ear, “How come you married this Greek, anyway?”
I lost myself in their minds: for the moment I actually became them.
I thought fleetingly he might give it to me, as he knew I wanted it.
She must know she was a mistake, what they call now a surprise.
Because you are unhappy, for pity’s sake, come close, near my heart.
Long before I saw London I smelt it in the bitter smoke of the sea-coal.
The features of the girl in the bathing suit suggest a mixed-race origin.
Years they sought her, whose crew left on the water a sad Welsh hymn.
If your father were here, he wouldn’t put up with your insolence.
“For the entire time I was there I couldn’t get that out of my head.”
The moment in your drunk when you become rich! A connoisseur.
One felt all the poor lady’s barriers were falling save her manner.
This morning I watched two elephants dance the boogie-woogie.
He said, You have no brother. I didn’t know what he meant. I do now.
Each night I curl my body around a small piece of silence.