#AmericanWriters
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
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…
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
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
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among