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

I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken

The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,

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

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

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.

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…

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

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...

By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.

Fools have big wombs. For the rest?—here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there’l...

Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway