#AmericanWriters
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a w...
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
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.
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.
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
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…
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which