A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.

These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

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

Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses

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

SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.

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

All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among

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

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

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…

A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was