#AmericanWriters
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
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
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
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
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…
When trouble comes your soul to tr… You love the friend who just “stan… Perhaps there’s nothing he can do’ The thing is strictly up to you; For there are troubles all your ow…
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…