#AmericanWriters
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…