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 . . .

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

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square

If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.

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

I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter

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

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

Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue

Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows

My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together

They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.

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