Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge

Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.

It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for

It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.

Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang

An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…

The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices

Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…

They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…

It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,

The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me

Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely

I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.