#AmericanWriters
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…
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
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
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one