#AmericanWriters
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
This plot of ground facing the waters of this inlet is dedicated to the living presenc… Emily Dickinson Wellcome who was born in England; married;
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
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.
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on