#AmericanWriters
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
This plot of ground facing the waters of this inlet is dedicated to the living presenc… Emily Dickinson Wellcome who was born in England; married;
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red