#AmericanWriters
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
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—
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
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
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
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…
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!