#AmericanWriters
A sunny day’s complete Poussinian… Divide it from itself. It is this… And it is not. By metaphor you paint A thing. Thus, the pineapple was…
Go on, high ship, since now, upon… The snake has left its skin upon t… Key West sank downward under mass… And silvers and greens spread over… Is at the mast-head and the past i…
You dweller in the dark cabin, To whom the watermelon is always p… Whose garden is wind and moon, Of the two dreams, night and day, What lover, what dreamer, would ch…
At the earliest ending of winter, In March, a scrawny cry from outs… Seemed like a sound in his mind. He knew that he heard it, A bird’s cry at daylight or before…
Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the self-same sound… On my spirit make a music, too. Music is feeling, then, not sound; And thus it is that what I feel,
The light is like a spider. It crawls over the water. It crawls over the edges of the sn… It crawls under your eyelids And spreads its webs there—
Granted, we die for good. Life, then, is largely a thing Of happens to like, not should. And that, too, granted, why Do I happen to like red bush,
Every time the bucks went clatteri… Over Oklahoma A firecat bristled in the way. Wherever they went, They went clattering,
The houses are haunted By white night-gowns. None are green, Or purple with green rings, Or green with yellow rings,
The time of year has grown indiffe… Mildew of summer and the deepening… Are both alike in the routine I k… I am too dumbly in my being pent. The wind attendant on the solstice…
Ariel was glad he had written his… They were of a remembered time Or of something seen that he liked… Other makings of the sun Were waste and welter
Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were on… As quick as foxes on the hill; And that in autumn, when the grape… Made sharp air sharper by their sm…
The house was quiet and the world… The reader became the book; and su… Was like the conscious being of th… The house was quiet and the world… The words were spoken as if there…
In my room, the world is beyond my… But when I walk I see that it con… hills and a cloud. From my balcony, I survey the yel… Reading where I have written,
Barque of phosphor On the palmy beach, Move outward into heaven, Into the alabasters And night blues.