Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows

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

THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—

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

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…

The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,

The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices

This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...

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

It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.

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

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

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn

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