#AmericanWriters
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
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...
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.