#AmericanWriters
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
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.
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
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…
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
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses