#AmericanWriters
He was the bullman earlierm King of the dish, my lucky animal. Breathing was easy in his airy hol… The sun sat in his armpit. Nothing went moldy. The little in…
Nobody in the lane, and nothing, n… Blackberries on either side, thoug… A blackberry alley, going down in… Somewhere at the end of it, heavin… Big as the ball of my thumb, and d…
Now this particular girl During a ceremonious april walk With her latest suitor Found herself, of a sudden, intole… By the birds’ irregular babel
Your brother will trim my hedges! They darken your house, Nosy grower, Mole on my shoulder, To be scratched absently,
Grub-white mulberries redden among… I’ll go out and sit in white like… Doing nothing. July’s juice round… This park is fleshed with idiot pe… White catalpa flowers tower, toppl…
Through portico of my elegant hous… With your wild furies, disturbing… And the fabulous lutes and peacock… Of all decorum which holds the whi… Now, rich order of walls is fallen…
Who are these people at the bridge… The rector, the midwife, the sexto… In my sleeveless summery dress I… And they are all gloved and covere… They are smiling and taking out ve…
Empty, I echo to the least footfa… Museum without statues, grand with… In my courtyard a fountain leaps a… Nun—hearted and blind to the world… Exhale their pallor like scent.
The womb Rattles its pod, the moon Discharges itself from the tree wi… My landscape is a hand with no lin… The roads bunched to a knot,
You said you would kill it this mo… Do not kill it. It startles me st… The jut of that odd, dark head, pa… Through the uncut grass on the elm… It is something to own a pheasant,
Pocket watch, I tick well. The streets are lizardy crevices Sheer—sided, with holes where to h… It is best to meet in a cul—de—sac… A palace of velvet
No lame excuses can gloss over Barge—tar clotted at the tide—line… I should have known better. Fifteen years between me and the b… Profited memory, but did away with…
I know the bottom, she says. I kn… It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been the… Is it the sea you hear in me, Its dissatisfactions?
In the rectory garden on his eveni… Paced brisk Father Shawn. A cold… In black Novemeber. After a slidi… Dew stood in chill sweat on each s… Each thorn; spiring from wet earth…
Enter the chilly no—man’s land of about Five o’clock in the morning, the no—color void Where the waking head rubbishes out the draggled lot Of sulfurous dreamscapes and obscure lunar co...