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

Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet

To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...

I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…

Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of

School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold

According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field

This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream

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

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

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

Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang

If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…

While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on