#AmericanWriters
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
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...
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…