Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…

Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees

A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which

Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am

Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang

I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge

The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me

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

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

Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of

A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing

This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...

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