#AmericanWriters
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
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
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a w...
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…