#AmericanWriters
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
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 back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.