#AmericanWriters
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows