In western fields of corn and nort… They talk about me, a saloon with… The soft red lights, the long curv… The leather seats and dim corners, Tall brass spittoons, a nigger cut…

‘YOU ****,' he flung at her. It was more than a hundred times He had thrown it into her face And by this time it meant nothing… She said to herself upstairs sweep…

EMPTY battlefields keep their ph… Grass crawls over old gun wheels And a nodding Canada thistle flin… Into the summer’s southwest wind, Wrapping a root in the rust of a b…

I ASKED the professors who teac… me what is happiness. And I went to famous executives w… thousands of men. They all shook their heads and gav…

LET us sit by a hissing steam rad… And let us talk about milk wagon d… Let us keep our feet in wool slipp… Let us write of olden, golden days… A roustabout hunched on a coal wag…

IN a Yiddish eating place on Riv… They know it is September on Rivi… Here the children snozzle at milk… Here the stranger wonders how so m…

SAND of the sea runs red Where the sunset reaches and quive… Sand of the sea runs yellow Where the moon slants and wavers.

THE HORSE’S name was Remorse. There were people said, ‘Gee, wha… And they were Edgar Allan Poe bu… They called him Remorse. When he was a gelding

One was a white gull forming a half-mile arch from the pines toward Waukegan. One was a whistle in the little sandhills, a bird crying either to the sunset gone or the dusk come. One wa...

THE SHALE and water thrown tog… Then a potter’s hand on the wheel… Slimpsy, loose and ready to fall a… Dipped in glaze more fire plays on… Take it now; out of mud now here i…

GOOD-BY now to the streets and… locking hubs, The sun coming on the brass buckle… The muscles of the horses sliding… haunches,

I SHALL never forget you, Broad… Your golden and calling lights. I’ll remember you long, Tall-walled river of rush and play… Hearts that know you hate you

MONEY is nothing now, even if I… O mooney moon, yellow half moon, Up over the green pines and gray e… Up in the new blue. Streel, streel,

NOW that a crimson rambler begins to crawl over the house of our two lives— Now that a red curve winds across the shingles—

BROTHER, I am fire Surging under the ocean floor. I shall never meet you, brother— Not for years, anyhow; Maybe thousands of years, brother.