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You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
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 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 . . .
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island