#AmericanWriters
Among of green stiff old
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
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.
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
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
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing