#AmericanWriters
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
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 the field by force; the grass
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
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...
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
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—
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire