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

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

the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie

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

Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees

Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

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...

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

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

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

It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.