#Americans #Modernism #Ekphrasis
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
Among of green stiff old
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway