#AmericanWriters
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
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,
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one