#AmericanWriters
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…
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
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
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
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
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…