#AmericanWriters
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
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.
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor