#AmericanWriters
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
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
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…
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
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
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
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.
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
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 . . .