#AmericanWriters
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
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
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...