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.

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:

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...

They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.

These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night

Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees

"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—

Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…

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 thefield by force; the grass

Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…

By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields

I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken