(1916)
#AmericanWriters
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
Fools have big wombs. For the rest?'here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter...
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…