#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
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
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
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!
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…