#AmericanWriters
Sky and sea, horizon-hinged Tablets of blank blue, couldn’t, Clapped shut, flatten this man out… The great gods, Stone-Head, Claw… Winded by much rock-bumping
Here in this valley of discrete ac… We have not mountains, but mounts,… To the Adirondacks, to northern M… Themselves mere rocky hillocks to… Still, they’re out best mustering…
No use, no use, now, begging Reco… There is nothing to do with such a… Name, house, car keys, The little toy wife— Erased, sigh, sigh.
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.
Through portico of my elegant hous… With your wild furies, disturbing… And the fabulous lutes and peacock… Of all decorum which holds the whi… Now, rich order of walls is fallen…
Mayday: two came to field in such… `A daisied mead’, each said to eac… So were they one; so sought they c… Across barbed stile, through flock… `No pitchforked farmer, please,' s…
O half moon’- Half-brain, luminosity’- Negro, masked like a white, Your dark Amputations crawl and appall’-
I’ve got a stubborn goose whose gu… Honeycombed with golden eggs, Yet won’t lay one. She, addled in her goose-wit, stru… The barnyard like those taloned ha…
Old man, you surface seldom. Then you come in with the tide’s coming When seas wash cold, foam— Capped: white hair, white beard,
I ordered this, clean wood box Square as a chair and almost too h… I would say it was the coffin of a… Or a square baby Were there not such a din in it.
With white frost gone And all green dreams not worth muc… After a lean day’s work Time comes round for that foul slu… Mere bruit of her takes our street
I made a fire; being tired Of the white fists of old Letters and their death rattle When I came too close to the wast… What did they know that I didn’t?
This is newness: every little tawd… Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculia… Glinting and clinking in a saint’s… Don’t know what to make of the sud… The blind, white, awful, inaccessi…
What a thrill —— My thumb instead of an onion. The top quite gone Except for a sort of a hinge Of skin,
Stasis in darkness. Then the substanceless blue Pour of tor and distances. God’s lioness, How one we grow,