#AmericanWriters #Modernism
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
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 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...
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
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…
