#AmericanWriters
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
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
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
ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
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!