Of tan with henna hackles, halt!****** universal ****, as if the sun
Was blackamoor to bear your blazing tail.Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat! I am the personal.
Your world is you. I am my world.You ten-foot poet among inchlings. Fat!
Begone! An inchling bristles in these pines,Bristles, and points their Appalachian tangs,
And fears not portly Azcan nor his hoos.
1879 - 1955/Male/AmericanA Modernist poet whose meditative and philosophical poems' moods rotate between ecstasy, apathy, and reluctance between ecstasy and apathy. (wikipedia)
View profile & all 50 Poems / StoriesIIn that November off Tehuantepec,The slopping of the sea grew still one night
With my whole body I taste these peaches,I touch them and smell them. Who speaks?I absorb them as the Angevine
No soldiers in the scenery,No thoughts of people now dead,
The prologues are over. It is a question, now,Of final belief. So, say that final belief
Although you sit in a room that is gray,Except for the silver
