#AmericanWriters
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
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.
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow