#AmericanWriters
contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a w...
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
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
An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.