(1921)
#Americans #Modernism
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
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…
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
