WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which

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

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

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

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…

A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which

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

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge

I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.

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

The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left

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

The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow