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

A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing

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

unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line

Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely

If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the

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

The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices

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

It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.

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

The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go

There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind

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...