By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields

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

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

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…

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 . . .

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

a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island

unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line

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

The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers

Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a worthy...

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...

the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie