#Activities #AmericanWriters #MoneyAndEconomics #SocialCommentaries
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
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.
Fools have big wombs. For the rest?'here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter...
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
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...
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…
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter