#AmericanWriters
Among of green stiff old
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
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...
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
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 thefield by force; the grass