#AmericanWriters
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
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—
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
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…
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…
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.
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky