(1923)
#AmericanWriters
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
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
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
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 . . .
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it: