Clark Coolidge Poems

I look in that one kind of dwindled. And in this,
look up, a truncheon in my fist, tin pot
on my head, the war. My father, I'm looking at, is my
...

In edges, in barriers the tonal light of t
the one thing removed overemphasizes tonally
and you could hurry it, and it vanish and plan
...

When you get in on a try you never learn it back
umpteen times the tenth part of a featured world
in black and in back it's roses and fostered nail
...

But it says nothing. And one is as quiet
as if to say nothing moves me. Then
there is the chair. And one speaks of
...

But it could not be brought to see what it
could be brought. And the leaves are
away again, teamed. A parent at the
...

the rooms are chosen, then they move on
the beads are wetted in the lime
the weedlot boils in the blood of one eye
...

He crackles the air in big fist
because it is turning, the night's spine
and the fast floor of last year is now the wall of this
...