Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…

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

Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow

A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…

Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…

Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am

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

a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island

Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—

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

When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves

I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter

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…