#AmericanWriters
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
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
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
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…
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…