#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor