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

The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,

From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor

An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge

They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.

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

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 the field by force; the grass

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

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

It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,

Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,

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

Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,