#Americans
Spatial depths of being survive The birth to death recurrences Of feet dancing on earth of sand; Vibrations of the dance survive The sand; the sand, elect, survive…
There is a natty kind of mind That slicks its thoughts, Culls its oughts, Trims its views, Prunes its trues,
Hair-braided chestnut, coiled like a lyncher’s rope, Eyes-fagots, Lips-old scars, or the first red b… Breath-the last sweet scent of can…
Stretch sea Stretch away sea and land We are following thee Thy lead is dangerous And glorius
Full moon rising on the waters of… Lakes and moon and fires, Cloine tires, Holding her lips apart. Promises of slumber leaving shore…
whisper of yellow globes gleaming on lamp-posts that sway like bootleg licker drinkers in th… and let your breath be moist again… like bright beads on yellow globes
Pour O pour that parting soul in… O pour it in the sawdust glow of n… Into the velvet pine-smoke air ton… And let the valley carry it along. And let the valley carry it along.
Black reapers with the sound of st… Are sharpening scythes. I see the… In their hip-pockets as a thing th… And start their silent swinging, o… Black horses drive a mower through…
The sky, lazily disdaining to purs… The setting sun, too indolent to h… A lengthened tournament for flashi… Passively darkens for night’s barb… A feast of moon and men and barkin…
Tell me, dear beauty of the dusk, When purple ribbons bind the hill, Do dreams your secret wish fulfill… Do prayers, like kernels from the… Come from your lips? Tell me if w…
I am a reaper whose muscles set at sundown. All my oats are cradled. But I am too chilled, and too fatigued to bind them. I crack a grain between my teeth. I do not taste it. I have bee...
Hair—braided chestnut, coiled like a lyncher’s rope, Eyes—fagots, Lips—old scars, or the first red b… Breath—the last sweet scent of can…
There is no transcience of twiligh… The beauty of your soft dusk-dimpl… No flicker of a slender flame in s… In crucibles, fragility crystallin… There is no fragrance of the jessa…
Whizzing, whizzing down the street-car tracks. Seventh Street is a bastrad of Prohibition and the War. A crude-boned, soft-skinned wedge of nigger life breathing its loafer...
Boll-weevil’s coming, and the wint… Made cotton-stalks look rusty, sea… And cotton, scarce as any southern… Was vanishing; the branch, so pinc… Failed in its function as the autu…
