#AmericanWriters
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
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
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
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 . . .
Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…
Among of green stiff old
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go