#AmericanWriters
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
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.
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire