#AmericanWriters
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
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
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
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…
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
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...
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for