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

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,

There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind

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

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...

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.

Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on

While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on

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