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

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

My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.

Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass

unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line

This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with

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

My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together

Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…

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

Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…

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

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire

Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway

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