#AmericanWriters
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
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
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…
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
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand