#AmericanWriters
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on