#AmericanWriters
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
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
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
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
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of