#AmericanWriters
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
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
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
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…
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
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…
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
