#AmericanWriters #Modernism
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
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...
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
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…
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
Even in the time when as yet I had no certain knowledge of her She sprang from the nest, a young… Whose first flight circled the for… I know now how then she showed me
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
