#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
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...
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
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…
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
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.
A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
