#Americans #Modernism
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
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
Even in the time when as yet I had no certain knowledge of her She sprang from the nest, a young… Whose first flight circled the for… I know now how then she showed me
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
