(1916)
#AmericanWriters
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
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...
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge