#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
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
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
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 . . .
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
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…
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity