#AmericanWriters
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,
Fools have big wombs. For the rest?'here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter...
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
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…
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of