#AmericanWriters
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
Among of green stiff old
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at 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
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
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...
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
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!
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love