#AmericanWriters
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...
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
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
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
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…
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
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
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses