#AmericanWriters
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
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!
I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
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.
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
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 thefield by force; the grass
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb