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

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

School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold

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 three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.

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

The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky

The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!

I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine

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

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...

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…

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 the field by force; the grass

It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .

SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire