#AmericanWriters
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
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
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.
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
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
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