#AmericanWriters
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
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…