#AmericanWriters
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...
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
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...
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good