(1923)
#AmericanWriters
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Fools have big wombs. For the rest?'here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter...
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow