#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
When trouble comes your soul to tr… You love the friend who just “stan… Perhaps there’s nothing he can do’ The thing is strictly up to you; For there are troubles all your ow…
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.