(1948)
#AmericanWriters
I remember the neckcurls, limp and… And her quick look, a sidelong pic… And how, once started into talk, t… And she balanced in the delight of… A wren, happy, tail into the wind,
By day the bat is cousin to the mo… He likes the attic of an aging hou… His fingers make a hat about his h… His pulse beat is so slow we think… He loops in crazy figures half the…
A shell arched under my toes, Stirred up by a whirl of silt That rifted around my knees. Whatever I owed to time slowed in… Sea water stood in my veins,
In the long journey out of the sel… There are many detours, washed—out… Where the shale slides dangerously And the back wheels hang almost ov… At the sudden veering, the moment…
Against the stone breakwater, Only an ominous lapping, While the wind whines overhead, Coming down from the mountain, Whistling between the arbors, the…
In Saginaw, in Saginaw, The wind blows up your feet, When the ladies’ guild puts on a f… There’s beans on every plate, And if you eat more than you shoul…
When I put her out, once, by the… She looked so limp and bedraggled, So foolish and trusting, like a si… Or a wizened aster in late Septem… I brought her back in again
I was always one for being alone, Seeking in my own way, eternal pur… At the edge of the field waiting f… Standing, silent, on sandy beaches… Knowing the sinuousness of small w…
Indelicate is he who loathes The aspect of his fleshy clothes,… The flying fabric stitched on bone… The vesture of the skeleton, The garment neither fur nor hair,
One feather is a bird, I claim; one tree, a wood; In her low voice I heard More than a mortal should; And so I stood apart,
My secrets cry aloud. I have no need for tongue. My heart keeps open house, My doors are widely swung. An epic of the eyes
In moving-slow he has no Peer. You ask him something in his Ear, He thinks about it for a Year; And, then, before he says a Word There, upside down (unlike a Bird…
In purest song one plays the const… As changes shimmer in the inner ey… I stare and stare into a deepening… And tell myself my image cannot di… I love myself: that’s my one const…
The fruit rolled by all day. They prayed the cogs would creep; They thought about Saturday pay, And Sunday sleep. Whatever he smelled was good:
Now as the train bears west, Its rhythm rocks the earth, And from my Pullman berth I stare into the night While others take their rest.