#Activities #AmericanWriters #MoneyAndEconomics #SocialCommentaries
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…
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
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
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 . . .
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang