#AmericanWriters
Kindness glides about my house. Dame Kindness, she is so nice! The blue and red jewels of her rin… In the windows, the mirrors Are filling with smiles.
Grub-white mulberries redden among… I’ll go out and sit in white like… Doing nothing. July’s juice round… This park is fleshed with idiot pe… White catalpa flowers tower, toppl…
Day of mist: day of tarnish with hands unserviceable, I wait for the milk van the one—eared cat
Take the general mumble, blunt as the faceless gut of an anonymous clam, vernacular as the strut of a slug or a small preamble
What a thrill —— My thumb instead of an onion. The top quite gone Except for a sort of a hinge Of skin,
“I shut my eyes and all the world… I lift my lids and all is born aga… (I think I made you up inside my… The stars go waltzing out in blue… And arbitrary blackness gallops in…
Over your body the clouds go High, high and icily And a little flat, as if they Unlike swans, Having no reflections;
Love set you going like a fat gold… The midwife slapped your footsoles… Took its place among the elements. Our voices echo, magnifying your a… In a drafty museum, your nakedness
The black bull bellowed before the… The sea, till that day orderly, Hove up against Bendylaw. The queen in the mulberry arbor st… Stiff as a queen on a playing card…
Where the three magenta Breakwaters take the shove And suck of the grey sea To the left, and the wave Unfists against the dun
I ordered this, clean wood box Square as a chair and almost too h… I would say it was the coffin of a… Or a square baby Were there not such a din in it.
The word of a snail on the plate o… It is not mine. Do not accept it. Acetic acid in a sealed tin? Do not accept it. It is not genui… A ring of gold with the sun in it?
He, hunger—strung, hard to slake, So fitted is for my black luck (With heat such as no man could ha… And yet keep kind) That all merit’s in being meat
In sunless air, under pines Green to the point of blackness, s… Founding father set these lobed, w… To loom in the leaf—filtered gloom Black as the charred knuckle—bones
With white frost gone And all green dreams not worth muc… After a lean day’s work Time comes round for that foul slu… Mere bruit of her takes our street