GOOD-BY now to the streets and… locking hubs, The sun coming on the brass buckle… The muscles of the horses sliding… haunches,

THERE was a late autumn cricket, And two smoldering mountain sunset… Under the valley roads of her eyes… There was a late autumn cricket, A hangover of summer song,

TAKE a hold now On the silver handles here, Six silver handles, One for each of his old pals. Take hold

AMONG the red guns, In the hearts of soldiers Running free blood In the long, long campaign: Dreams go on.

I KNOW a Jew fish crier down on… voice like a north wind blowing ov… in January. He dangles herring before prospect… a joy identical with that of Pavlo…

Singing to Paris for bread, singing to Gotham in a fizz at the pop of a bottle’s cork. “Won’t you come and play wiz me” she sang... and “I just can’t make my eyes behave.” “Higgeldy-Pig...

WHAT do we see here in the sand… moon alone with our thoughts, Bill… Alone with our dreams, Bill, soft… scarves around their heads dancing… Alone with a picture and a picture…

MOMUS is the name men give your… The brag of its tone, like a long… Finding a way mid mist on a shorel… Where gray rocks let the salt wate… Against horizons purple, silent.

I REMEMBER the Chillicothe ba… And the shoulders of the Chillico… And the umpire’s voice was hoarse…

LET a joy keep you. Reach out your hands And take it when it runs by, As the Apache dancer Clutches his woman.

SNOW took us away from the smoke… Snow changes our bones into fog st… Six bits for a sniff of snow in th… Our bones cry and cry, no let-up,… More, more-a yen is on, a long yen…

I SPOT the hills With yellow balls in autumn. I light the prairie cornfields Orange and tawny gold clusters And I am called pumpkins.

ALL day long in fog and wind, The waves have flung their beating… Against the palisades of adamant. My boy, he went to sea, long and l… Curls of brown were slipping under…

WHEN the jury files in to deliver a verdict after weeks of direct and cross examinations, hot clashes of lawyers and cool decisions of the judge, There are points of high silence—twid...

I ASKED a gypsy pal To imitate an old image And speak old wisdom. She drew in her chin, Made her neck and head