#AmericanWriters
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
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
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…