#AmericanWriters
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
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.
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
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...
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass
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.
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…