#AmericanWriters
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 . . .
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
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…
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
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
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
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
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…