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

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees

Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous

ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…

From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor

The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...

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…

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

By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.

You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!

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

Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses

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…