#AmericanWriters
He, hunger—strung, hard to slake, So fitted is for my black luck (With heat such as no man could ha… And yet keep kind) That all merit’s in being meat
That lofty monarch, Monarch Mind, Blue-blooded in coarse country rei… Though he bedded in ermine, gorged… Pure Philosophy his love engrosse… While subjects hungered, empty-pur…
I walked the unwalked garden of ro… In the public park; at home felt t… Of a single rose present to imagin… The garden’s remainder in full pai… The stone lion-head set in the wal…
Two virtues ride, by stallion, by… To grind our knives and scissors: Lantern—jawed Reason, squat Commo… One courting doctors of all sorts, One, housewives and shopkeepers.
Haunched like a faun, he hooed From grove of moon—glint and fen—f… Until all owls in the twigged fore… Flapped black to look and brood On the call this man made.
Enter the chilly no—man’s land of about Five o’clock in the morning, the no—color void Where the waking head rubbishes out the draggled lot Of sulfurous dreamscapes and obscure lunar co...
“I shut my eyes and all the world… I lift my lids and all is born aga… (I think I made you up inside my… The stars go waltzing out in blue… And arbitrary blackness gallops in…
Summer grows old, cold—blooded mot… The insects are scant, skinny. In these palustral homes we only Croak and wither. Mornings dissipate in somnolence.
It is no night to drown in: A full moon, river lapsing Black beneath bland mirror—sheen, The blue water—mists dropping Scrim after scrim like fishnets
This is newness: every little tawd… Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculia… Glinting and clinking in a saint’s… Don’t know what to make of the sud… The blind, white, awful, inaccessi…
The idiot bird leaps out and drunk… Atop the broken universal clock: The hour is crowed in lunatic thir… Out painted stages fall apart by s… While all the actors halt in morta…
Tell me what you see in it: The pine tree like a Rorschach—bl… black against the orange light: Plant an orange pumpkin patch which at twelve will quaintly hatc…
On the stiff twig up there Hunches a wet black rook Arranging and rearranging its feat… I do not expect a miracle Or an accident
This is a dark house, very big. I made it myself, Cell by cell from a quiet corner, Chewing at the grey paper, Oozing the glue drops,
Empty, I echo to the least footfa… Museum without statues, grand with… In my courtyard a fountain leaps a… Nun—hearted and blind to the world… Exhale their pallor like scent.