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 . . .

The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go

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

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge

Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves

beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island

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

It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...

"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—

A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing