#AmericanWriters
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.
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
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…
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
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...
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain