O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…

Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge

These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night

I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge

Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…

According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field

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…

Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely

This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream

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...