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

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

The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...

the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie

You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees

One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…

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

Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides

The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!

Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.

I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.

Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion '€˜tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity

Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet

contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…