#AmericanWriters
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
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 the field by force; the grass
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a w...