#AmericanWriters
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
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.
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…