#AmericanWriters
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
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…
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
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
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
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.
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red