#AmericanWriters
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
When trouble comes your soul to tr… You love the friend who just “stan… Perhaps there’s nothing he can do’ The thing is strictly up to you; For there are troubles all your ow…
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
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
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on