#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
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
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
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
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left