#AmericanWriters
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
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…
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
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
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,