#AmericanWriters
Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
Fools have big wombs. For the rest?'here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter...