#Americans #Modernism
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
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.
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.
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
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
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 . . .
