Two young men—you just might call them boys— …
Philip Levine
He tells me in Bangkok he’s robbed …
We stripped in the first warm spring night …
The little girl won’t eat her sandwich; …
Some days I catch a rhythm, almost a song …
Newspaper says the boy killed by someone, …
No, not in the flesh — if Jesus was ever …
Turn left off Henry onto Middagh Street …
A rectangular Bulova, my Zadie …
As a boy he played alone in the fields …
We don't see the ocean, not ever, but in July and August …
Can you imagine the air filled with smoke? …
This is the house of the very rich. …
Again the …
Out of burlap sacks, out of bearing butter, …
We stand in the rain in a long line …
My brother comes home from work …