#AmericanWriters
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one