#AmericanWriters
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
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
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
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.
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…