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

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

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…

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

beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and

Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,

Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway

"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—

The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices

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

Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!

An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…

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 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