#AmericanWriters
There is a wolf in me . . . fangs… tongue for raw meat. . . and the h… this wolf because the wilderness g… will not let it go. There is a fox in me. . . a silver…
JOY... weaving two violet petals for a coat lapel... painting on a slab of night sky a Christ face... slipping new brass keys into rusty iron locks and shouldering till at last the door...
NANCY HANKS dreams by the fir… Dreams, and the logs sputter, And the yellow tongues climb. Red lines lick their way in flicke… Oh, sputter, logs.
DREAMS in the dusk, Only dreams closing the day And with the day’s close going bac… To the gray things, the dark thing… The far, deep things of dreamland.
Sobs En Route to a Penitentiary Good-by now to the streets and the… locking hubs, The sun coming on the brass buckle… The muscles of the horses sliding…
I SAW a mouth jeering. A smile o… A fist hit the mouth: knuckles of… The fist hit the mouth over and ov… And I saw the more the fist pound…
AMONG the bumble-bees in red-top… I read your heart in a book. And your mouth of blue pansy—I kn… And I have seen a woman with her… And the blue pansy mouth sang to t…
TWO Swede families live downstairs and an Irish policeman upstairs, and an old soldier, Uncle Joe. Two Swede boys go upstairs and see Joe. His wife is dead, his only son is dead, and ...
ON the lips of the child Janet fl… It is a thin spiral of blue smoke, A morning campfire at a mountain l… On the lips of the child Janet, Wisps of haze on ten miles of corn…
ONE man killed another. The sayi… The killer wept over the dead. Th… Why is the sun a red ball in the s… Why is the moon a tumbling chimney…
Hot gold runs a winding stream on… Yellow trickles in a fan figure, s… of dancing girls, performs blazing… one stream, forgets the past and r… The sea-mist green of the bowl’s b…
MEMORY of you is . . . a blue s… I cannot remember the name of it. Alongside a bold dripping poppy is… And they cover you.
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
‘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…