#AmericanWriters
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
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…
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…
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
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.
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
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.
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely