#AmericanWriters
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
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
Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…
Among of green stiff old
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang