#Americans #Modernism
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
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
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
