#AmericanWriters
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
Among of green stiff old
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
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
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…
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
