#AmericanWriters
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
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 burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
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 pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…