#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
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
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…
Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…
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
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees