#AmericanWriters
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
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…
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
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
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices