#AmericanWriters
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
Among of green stiff old
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
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...
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses