#AmericanWriters
O sweet spontaneous earth how often have the doting fingers of
my girl’s tall with hard long eyes as she stands,with her long hard h… silence on her dress,good for slee… is her long hard body filled with… like a white shocking wire, when s…
Paris;this April sunset completel… utters serenely silently a cathedr… before whose upward lean magnifice… the streets turn young with rain, spiral acres of bloated rose
the emperor sleeps in a palace of porphyry which was a million years building he takes the air in a howdah of jasper beneath saffron
Who threw the silver dollar up i… … lady who sews and grows every day… ing and that’s the truth,
as freedom is a breakfastfood or truth can live with right and w… or molehills are from mountains ma… —long enough and just so long will being pay the rent of seem
god pity me whom(god distinctly ha… the weightless svelte drifting sex… of your shall i say body?follows truly through a dribbling moan of… whose arched occasional stepped yo…
when faces called flowers float ou… and breathing is wishing and wishi… but keeping is downward and doubti… —it’s april(yes, april;my darling)… yes the pretty birds frolic as spr…
a blue woman with sticking out bre… clothes. On the line. not so old for the mother of twelve undershir… by is it Bishop Taylor who needs… that marriage is a sure cure for m…
i have found what you are like the rain, (Who feathers frightened fields with the superior dust-of-sleep. w… easily the pale club of the wind
the moon is hiding in her hair. The lily of heaven
the mind is its own beautiful pris… Mind looked long at the sticky moo… opening in dusk her new wings then decently hanged himself,one a… The last thing he saw was you
my sonnet is A light goes on in the toiletwindow,that’s straightac… my window,night air bothered with… sort of sublimated tom-tom which quite outdoes the mandolin-
if there are any heavens my mother… one. It will not be a pansy heaven… a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-… it will be a heaven of blackred ro… my father will be(deep like a rose
in Just- spring when the world is mud… luscious the little lame baloonman whistles far and wee