#AmericanWriters
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
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…
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
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!
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Among of green stiff old
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow