Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.

Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses

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

Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of

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...

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which

It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.

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

The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky

I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.

The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!

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

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

Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest