#AmericanWriters
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
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
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
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, the waste of broad, muddy fields
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire