#AmericanWriters
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!