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

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 bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine

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

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

The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last

Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion '€˜tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity

Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue

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 . . .

Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...

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

The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left