#Americans #Modernism
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
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...
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
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...
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
