#AmericanWriters
The telegram says you have gone aw… And left our bankrupt circus on it… There is nothing more for me to sa… The maestro gives the singing bird… And they buy tickets for the tropi…
Stasis in darkness. Then the substanceless blue Pour of tor and distances. God’s lioness, How one we grow,
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.
“I shut my eyes and all the world… I lift my lids and all is born aga… (I think I made you up inside my… The stars go waltzing out in blue… And arbitrary blackness gallops in…
I thought that I could not be hur… I thought that I must surely be impervious to suffering— immune to pain or agony.
The groundhog on the mountain did… But fatly scuttled into the splaye… And faced me, back to a ledge of d… Her sallow rodent teeth like casta… Against my leaning down, would not…
The text of this poem could not be…
Hearing a white saint rave About a quintessential beauty Visible only to the paragon heart, I tried my sight on an apple-tree That for eccentric knob and wart
In Alicante they bowl the barrels Bumblingly over the nubs of the co… Past the yellow—paella eateries, Below the ramshackle back—alley ba… While the cocks and hens
It is ten years, now, since we row… The sun flamed straight down that… That summer we wore black glasses… We were always crying, in our spar… In the two, huge, white, handsome…
Arena dust rusted by four bulls’ b… The afternoon at a bad end under t… The ritual death each time botched… stabs, The strongest will seemed a will t…
I walked the unwalked garden of ro… In the public park; at home felt t… Of a single rose present to imagin… The garden’s remainder in full pai… The stone lion-head set in the wal…
Cold on my narrow cot I lie and in sorrow look through my window—square of black: figured in the midnight sky, a mosaic of stars
Over your body the clouds go High, high and icily And a little flat, as if they Unlike swans, Having no reflections;
The womb Rattles its pod, the moon Discharges itself from the tree wi… My landscape is a hand with no lin… The roads bunched to a knot,