#AmericanWriters
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
This plot of ground facing the waters of this inlet is dedicated to the living presenc… Emily Dickinson Wellcome who was born in England; married;
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
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.
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…
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
