Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge

I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.

The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow

My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…

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

Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…

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...

Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—

Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:

A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.

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

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

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.