#AmericanWriters
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 thefield by force; the grass
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
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
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,