#AmericanWriters
The tumult in the heart keeps asking questions. And then it stops and undertakes t… in the same tone of voice. No one could tell the difference.
I am in need of music that would f… Over my fretful, feeling fingertip… Over my bitter—tainted, trembling… With melody, deep, clear, and liqu… Oh, for the healing swaying, old a…
Days that cannot bring you near or will not, Distance trying to appear something more obstinate, argue argue argue with me
Out on the high “bird islands,” C… the razorbill auks and the silly—l… with their backs to the mainland in solemn, uneven lines along the… while the few sheep pastured there…
We must admire her perfect aim, this huntress of the winter air whose level weapon needs no sight, if it were not that everywhere her game is sure, her shot is righ…
Caught —the bubble in the spirit level, a creature divided; and the compass needle wobbling and wavering,
Minnow, go to sleep and dream, Close your great big eyes; Round your bed Events prepare The pleasantest surprise. Darling Minnow, drop that frown,
Wasted, wasted minutes that couldn… minutes of a barbaric condescensio… —Stare out the bathroom window at… at their dark needles, accretions… woodenly crystallized, and where t…
Beneath that loved and celebrated… silent, bored really blindly veine… grieves, maybe lives and lets live, passes bets, something moving but invisibly,
It was cold and windy, scarcely th… to take a walk on that long beach Everything was withdrawn as far as… indrawn: the tide far out, the oce… seabirds in ones or twos.
Moving from left to left, the ligh… is heavy on the Dome, and coarse. One small lunette turns it aside and blankly stares off to the side like a big white old wall—eyed hor…
I caught a tremendous fish and held him beside the boat half out of water, with my hook fast in a corner of his mouth. He didn’t fight.
We’d rather have the iceberg than… although it meant the end of trave… Although it stood stock—still like… and all the sea were moving marble… We’d rather have the iceberg than…
The art of losing isn’t hard to ma… so many things seem filled with th… to be lost that their loss is no d… Lose something every day. Accept… of lost door keys, the hour badly…
Oh, but it is dirty! —this little filling station, oil—soaked, oil—permeated to a disturbing, over—all black translucency.
