#AmericanWriters
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
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