the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie

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

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

SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire

I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…

I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.

When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves

I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter

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.

It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for

It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.

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