#AmericanWriters
Old goatherds swear how all night… The warning whirr and burring of t… Who wakes with darkness and till d… Vampiring dry of milk each great g… Moon full, moon dark, the chary da…
This is winter, this is night, sma… A sort of black horsehair, A rough, dumb country stuff Steeled with the sheen Of what green stars can make it to…
A garden of mouthings. Purple, sc… The great corollas dilate, peeling… Their musk encroaches, circle afte… A well of scents almost too dense… Hieratical in your frock coat, mae…
I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it— A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
Mud-mattressed under the sign of t… In a clench of blood, the sleep-ta… Gibbets with her curse the moon’s… ****-bearing Jack in his crackless… Hatched with a claret hogshead to…
On storm—struck deck, wind sirens… With each tilt, shock and shudder,… Cleaves forward into fury; dark as… Waves wallop, assaulting the stubb… Flayed by spray, we take the chall…
Stasis in darkness. Then the substanceless blue Pour of tor and distances. God’s lioness, How one we grow,
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…
I came before the water— Colorists came to get the Good of the Cape light that scour… Sand grit to sided crystal And buffs and sleeks the blunt hul…
Will they occur, These people with torso of steel Winged elbows and eyeholes Awaiting masses Of cloud to give them expression,
He was the bullman earlierm King of the dish, my lucky animal. Breathing was easy in his airy hol… The sun sat in his armpit. Nothing went moldy. The little in…
Now coldness comes sifting down, l… To our bower at the lily root. Overhead the old umbrellas of summ… Wither like pithless hands. There… Hourly the eye of the sky enlarges…
From under the crunch of my man’s… green oat-sprouts jut; he names a lapwing, starts rabbits… legging it most nimble to sprigged hedge of bramble,
'Tea leaves I’ve given up, And that crooked line On the queen’s palm Is no more my concern. On my black pilgrimage
Overnight, very Whitely, discreetly, Very quietly Our toes, our noses Take hold on the loam,