#AmericanWriters
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
When trouble comes your soul to tr… You love the friend who just “stan… Perhaps there’s nothing he can do’ The thing is strictly up to you; For there are troubles all your ow…
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge