Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass

This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...

Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…

Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion '€˜tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity

Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last

From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor

In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…

To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...

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

According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field