#AmericanWriters
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
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…
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
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
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
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
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
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.
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.