#AmericanWriters
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
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…
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
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 the field by force; the grass
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine