#AmericanWriters
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
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…
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
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.
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
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
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…