#AmericanWriters
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
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 half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
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.
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn