Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees

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

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…

My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together

I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,

The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,

In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square

Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of

THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—

A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which

I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine

O’€”eh’€”lee! La’€”la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…

Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,

The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers