#AmericanWriters
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
When trouble comes your soul to tr… You love the friend who just “stan… Perhaps there’s nothing he can do’ The thing is strictly up to you; For there are troubles all your ow…
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey