#Americans #Modernism
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…
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…
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
Among of green stiff old
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
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.
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on