#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
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
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
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
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices