#AmericanWriters
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
Even in the time when as yet I had no certain knowledge of her She sprang from the nest, a young… Whose first flight circled the for… I know now how then she showed me
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
Fools have big wombs. For the rest?—here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there’l...
The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
