#AmericanWriters
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
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...
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color