Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides

My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.

I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge

The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail

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.

This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...

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

It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.

Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!

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

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…

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

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn