#AmericanWriters
THE HORSE’S name was Remorse. There were people said, ‘Gee, wha… And they were Edgar Allan Poe bu… They called him Remorse. When he was a gelding
LET me be monosyllabic to-day, O… Yesterday I loosed a snarl of wor… on a child. To-day, let me be monosyllabic … a… who wash sunlight in their fingers…
LEAVES of poplars pick Japanese… Moon sand on the canal doubles the… The moon’s good-by ends pictures. The west is empty. All else is em… Only dark listening to dark.
(For S. A.)TO write one book in… or five books in one year, to be the painter and the thing pa… ... where are we, bo? Wait-get his number.
ABOWSKY’S place is on a side street and only the rain washes the dusty three balls. When I passed the window a month ago, there rested in proud isolation: A family bible with hasps ...
THEY have taken the ball of eart… and made it a little thing. They were held to the land and hor… they were held to the little seas. They have changed and shaped and w…
NEITHER rose leaves gathered in… Cinders-these-hissing in a marl an…
THE WISHES on this child’s mou… Came like snow on marsh cranberrie… The tamarack kept something for he… The wind is ready to help her shoe… The north has loved her; she will…
THE single clenched fist lifted a… Or the open asking hand held out a… Choose: For we meet by one or the other.
ONCE when I saw a cripple Gasping slowly his last days with… Looking from hollow eyes, calling… Desperately gesturing with wasted… In the dark and dust of a house do…
Red barns and red heiffers spot th… grass circles around Omaha—the far… haul tanks of cream and wagon-load… cheese. Shale hogbacks across the river at…
THE monotone of the rain is beaut… And the sudden rise and slow relap… Of the long multitudinous rain. The sun on the hills is beautiful, Or a captured sunset sea-flung,
JOY... weaving two violet petals for a coat lapel... painting on a slab of night sky a Christ face... slipping new brass keys into rusty iron locks and shouldering till at last the door...
BILBEA, I was in Babylon on Sa… I saw nothing of you anywhere. I was at the old place and the oth… Have you gone to another house? or… Why don’t you write?
A SWIRL in the air where your h… You walked under this tree, spoke… I might almost stand here and beli…