#AmericanWriters
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
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...
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
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
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine