#AmericanWriters
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet