#AmericanWriters
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
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.
Fools have big wombs. For the rest?'here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter...
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.