#Americans #Modernism
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
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…
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
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.
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 thefield by force; the grass
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
