#AmericanWriters #Modernism
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
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…
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
