It is a small plant
delicately branched and
tapering conically
to a point, each branch
and the peak a wire for

Ecstatic bird songs pound
the hollow vastness of the sky
with metallic clinkings—
beating color up into it
at a far edge,—beating it, beating

Take it out in vile whisky, take i
in lifting your skirts to show you
crotches; it is this that is inten
You are it. Your pleas will alway
You too will always go up with the

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

It is cold. The white moon
is up among her scattered stars—
like the bare thighs of
the Police Sergeant’s wife—among
her five children . . .

Why pretend to remember the weathe
Having once taken the plunge the s
When beldams dig clams their fat h
Cross a knife and fork and listen
Hilariously happy because of some

Paterson lies in the valley under
its spent waters forming the outli
lies on his right side, head near
of the waters filling his dreams!
his dreams walk about the city whe

WHERE shall I find you—
You, my grotesque fellows
That I seek everywhere
To make up my band?
None, not one

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

beauty is a shell
from the sea
where she rules triumphant
till love has had its way with her
scallops and