It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,

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.

A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…

All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among

Fools have big wombs. For the rest?—here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there’l...

NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,

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...

Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest

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

Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang

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

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.

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn

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