#AmericanWriters
The light is like a spider. It crawls over the water. It crawls over the edges of the sn… It crawls under your eyelids And spreads its webs there—
There are great things doing In the world, Little rabbit. There is a damsel, Sweeter than the sound of the will…
It was the morn And the palms were waved And the brass was played Then the coroner came In his limpid shoes.
Poetry is the supreme fiction, mad… Take the moral law and make a nave… And from the nave build haunted he… The conscience is converted into p… Like windy citherns hankering for…
Sister and mother and diviner love… And of the sisterhood of the livin… Most near, most clear, and of the… And of the fragrant mothers the mo… And queen, and of diviner love the…
Opusculum paedagogum. The pears are not viols, Nudes or bottles. They resemble nothing else. II
Although you sit in a room that is… Except for the silver Of the straw-paper, And pick At your pale white gown;
Barque of phosphor On the palmy beach, Move outward into heaven, Into the alabasters And night blues.
q|And for what, except for you, do… Do I press the extremest book of… Close to me, hidden in me day and… In the uncertain light of single,… Equal in living changingness to th…
In my room, the world is beyond my… But when I walk I see that it con… hills and a cloud. From my balcony, I survey the yel… Reading where I have written,
Day creeps down. The moon is cree… The sun is a corbeil of flowers th… Places there, a bouquet. Ho-ho…Th… Of images. Days pass like papers… The bouquets come here in the pape…
It is grass. It is monotonous. The monotony Is like your port which conceals All your characters
An old man sits In the shadow of a pine tree In China. He sees larkspur, Blue and white,
he moon is the mother of pathos an… When, at the wearier end of Novem… Her old light moves along the bran… Feebly, slowly, depending upon the… When the body of Jesus hangs in a…
You dweller in the dark cabin, To whom the watermelon is always p… Whose garden is wind and moon, Of the two dreams, night and day, What lover, what dreamer, would ch…