(1948)
#Americans
One feather is a bird, I claim; one tree, a wood; In her low voice I heard More than a mortal should; And so I stood apart,
Now as the train bears west, Its rhythm rocks the earth, And from my Pullman berth I stare into the night While others take their rest.
In a shoe box stuffed in an old ny… Sleeps the baby mouse I found in… Where he trembled and shook beneat… Till I caught him up by the tail… Cradled in my hand,
I study the lives on a leaf: the l… Sleepers, numb nudgers in cold dim… Beetles in caves, newts, stone—dea… Lice tethered to long limp subterr… Squirmers in bogs,
Indelicate is he who loathes The aspect of his fleshy clothes,… The flying fabric stitched on bone… The vesture of the skeleton, The garment neither fur nor hair,
The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. We romped until the pans
In the long journey out of the sel… There are many detours, washed—out… Where the shale slides dangerously And the back wheels hang almost ov… At the sudden veering, the moment…
Nothing would sleep in that cellar… Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting f… Shoots dangled and drooped, Lolling obscenely from mildewed cr… Hung down long yellow evil necks,…
In purest song one plays the const… As changes shimmer in the inner ey… I stare and stare into a deepening… And tell myself my image cannot di… I love myself: that’s my one const…
The fruit rolled by all day. They prayed the cogs would creep; They thought about Saturday pay, And Sunday sleep. Whatever he smelled was good:
What’s this? A dish for fat lips. Who says? A nameless stranger. Is he a bird or a tree? Not every… Water recedes to the crying of spi… An old scow bumps over black rocks…
I was always one for being alone, Seeking in my own way, eternal pur… At the edge of the field waiting f… Standing, silent, on sandy beaches… Knowing the sinuousness of small w…
In Saginaw, in Saginaw, The wind blows up your feet, When the ladies’ guild puts on a f… There’s beans on every plate, And if you eat more than you shoul…
I dream of journeys repeatedly: Of flying like a bat deep into a n… Of driving alone, without luggage,… The road lined with snow—laden sec… A fine dry snow ticking the windsh…
My secrets cry aloud. I have no need for tongue. My heart keeps open house, My doors are widely swung. An epic of the eyes