#Americans #Modernism
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
