#AmericanWriters
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
