#AmericanWriters
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
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
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a w...