#AmericanWriters
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a w...
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.
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
When trouble comes your soul to tr… You love the friend who just “stan… Perhaps there’s nothing he can do’ The thing is strictly up to you; For there are troubles all your ow…
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 horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
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
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
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