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American poetry

The Little Town

I walk for a long time. These mountains are soft, and these valleys. Suddenly the skin of a mountain moves, and it becomes a valley. It's been raining here. New streams trickle through underbrush, among blue wildflowers, and butterflies as blue as [...]


Driving to the airport, we pass the equestrian
statue in the park: the plumed general
on his narrow plinth. It's not easy

Milkers Broken Up

I was sleeping in Madison, Anthony Bradbury's spareroom,
after a day when we visited a gallery to look at collages
he had pasted from illustrations torn out of magazines.