#AmericanWriters
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...
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow