#Americans #Modernism
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
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.
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
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...
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.