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

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 . . .

It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...

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

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

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…

The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go

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

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

Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue

First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.