#AmericanWriters
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
Fools have big wombs. For the rest?'here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter...
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go