#AmericanWriters
You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo…
You bring me good news from the cl… Whipping off your silk scarf, exhi… Mummy—cloths, smiling: I’m all ri… When I was nine, a lime—green ane… Fed me banana gas through a frog—m…
All morning in the strawberry fiel… They talked about the Russians. Squatted down between the rows We listened. We heard the head woman say,
Sky and sea, horizon-hinged Tablets of blank blue, couldn’t, Clapped shut, flatten this man out… The great gods, Stone-Head, Claw… Winded by much rock-bumping
I’m a riddle in nine syllables, An elephant, a ponderous house, A melon strolling on two tendrils. O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers! This loaf’s big with its yeasty ri…
Always in the middle of a kiss Came the profane stimulus to cough… Always from teh pulpit during serv… Leaned the devil prompting you to… Behind mock—ceremony of your grief
The night is only a sort of carbon… Blueblack, with the much-poked per… Letting in the light, peephole aft… A bonewhite light, like death, beh… Under the eyes of the stars and th…
To his house the bodiless Come to barter endlessly Vision, wisdom, for bodies Palpable as his, and weighty. Hands moving move priestlier
Thou shalt have an everlasting Monday and stand in the moon. The moon’s man stands in his shell… Bent under a bundle Of sticks. The light falls chalk…
Ravening through the persistent br… Of blunt pencils, rose-sprigged co… Postage stamps, stacked books’ cla… Neighborhood cockcrow —all nature’… The vaunting mind
This is newness: every little tawd… Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculia… Glinting and clinking in a saint’s… Don’t know what to make of the sud… The blind, white, awful, inaccessi…
In sunless air, under pines Green to the point of blackness, s… Founding father set these lobed, w… To loom in the leaf—filtered gloom Black as the charred knuckle—bones
With white frost gone And all green dreams not worth muc… After a lean day’s work Time comes round for that foul slu… Mere bruit of her takes our street
The prince leans to the girl in sc… Her green eyes slant, hair flaring… Of silver as the rondo slows; now… Begin on tilted violins to span The whole revolving tall glass pal…
Summer grows old, cold—blooded mot… The insects are scant, skinny. In these palustral homes we only Croak and wither. Mornings dissipate in somnolence.