#AmericanWriters #Couplet #FreeVerse
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
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...
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
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
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…
I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields