#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
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…
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
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
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
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows