#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
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…
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
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it: