#AmericanWriters
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
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
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
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
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
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...
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor