#AmericanWriters
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
Among of green stiff old
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
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...
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