#AmericanWriters
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
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.
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
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—