#Americans #Modernism
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
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…
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…
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.