#AmericanWriters
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a worthy...
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
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—
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
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.
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
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
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
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 . . .
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
