#AmericanWriters
PEA pods cling to stems. Neponset, the village, Clings to the Burlington railway… Terrible midnight limiteds roar th… Hauling sleepers to the Rockies a…
THE SUMMER shirt sale of a downtown haberdasher is glorified in a show-window slang: everybody understands the language: red dots, yellow circles, blue anchors, and dove-brown hooks, th...
DOWN between the walls of shadow Where the iron laws insist, The hunger voices mock. The worn wayfaring men With the hunched and humble should…
THROW roses on the sea where the… The roses speak to the sea, And the sea to the dead. Throw roses, O lovers– Let the leaves wash on the salt in…
(For Paula)THE GRIP of the ice… The silvers chase purple. The purples tag silver. They let out their runners Here where summer says to the lili…
GOOD-BY now to the streets and… locking hubs, The sun coming on the brass buckle… The muscles of the horses sliding… haunches,
The sea-wash never ends. The sea-wash repeats, repeats. Only old songs? Is that all the s… Only the old strong songs? Is that all?
Hope is a tattered flag and a drea… Hope is a heartspun word, the rain… The evening star inviolable over t… The shimmer of northern lights acr… The blue hills beyond the smoke of…
RED gold of pools, Sunset furrows six o’clock, And the farmer done in the fields And the cows in the barns with bul… Take the cows and the farmer,
PAULA is digging and shaping the… Scarlet Chinese talker of summer. Two petals of crabapple blossom bl… hair, And fluff of white from a cottonwo…
The voice of the last cricket across the first frost is one kind of good-by. It is so thin a splinter of singin…
I AM singing to you Soft as a man with a dead child sp… Hard as a man in handcuffs, Held where he cannot move: Under the sun
BECAUSE I have called to you as the flame flamingo calls, or the want of a spotted hawk is called– because in the dusk
Baby vamps, is it harder work than… Are the new soda parlors worse tha… Baby vamps, do you have jobs in th… In the winter at the skating rinks… Wherever figure eights are carved,…
THERE are no handles upon a lang… Whereby men take hold of it And mark it with signs for its rem… It is a river, this language, Once in a thousand years