#AmericanWriters #Modernism #FreeVerse
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
Among of green stiff old
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
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.
A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…
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 . . .
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
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.
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
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
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
