#AmericanWriters
Your brother will trim my hedges! They darken your house, Nosy grower, Mole on my shoulder, To be scratched absently,
Two virtues ride, by stallion, by… To grind our knives and scissors: Lantern-jawed Reason, squat Commo… One courting doctors of all sorts, One, housewives and shopkeepers.
The figs on the fig tree in the ya… Green, also, the grapes on the gre… Shading the brickred porch tiles. The money’s run out. How nature, sensing this, compound…
A squeal of brakes. Or is it a birth cry? And here we are, hung out over the… Uncle, pants factory Fatso, milli… And you out cold beside me in your…
The photographic chamber of the ey… records bare painted walls, while… lays the chromium nerves of plumbi… such poverty assaults the ego; cau… naked in the merely actual room,
Since Christmas they have lived w… Guileless and clear, Oval soul—animals, Taking up half the space, Moving and rubbing on the silk
In sunless air, under pines Green to the point of blackness, s… Founding father set these lobed, w… To loom in the leaf—filtered gloom Black as the charred knuckle—bones
What is this, behind this veil, is… It is shimmering, has it breasts,… I am sure it is unique, I am sure… When I am quiet at my cooking I f… ‘Is this the one I am too appear…
How far is it? How far is it now? The gigantic gorilla interior Of the wheels move, they appall me… The terrible brains
But I would rather be horizontal. I am not a tree with my root in th… Sucking up minerals and motherly l… So that each March I may gleam in… Nor am I the beauty of a garden b…
The yew’s black fingers wag: Cold clouds go over. So the deaf and dumb Signal the blind, and are ignored. I like black statements.
Up here among the gull cries we stroll through a maze of pale red-mottled relics, shells, claws as if it were summer still. That season has turned its back.
Now we, returning from the vaulted… Of our colossal sleep, come home t… A tall metropolis of catacombs Erected down the gangways of our m… Green alleys where we reveled have…
Spry, wry, and gray as these Marc… Percy bows, in his blue peajacket,… He is recuperating from something… The narcissi, too, are bowing to s… It rattles their stars on the gree…
Enter the chilly no—man’s land of about Five o’clock in the morning, the no—color void Where the waking head rubbishes out the draggled lot Of sulfurous dreamscapes and obscure lunar co...