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 . . .

You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich

Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of

You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!

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

From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor

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

My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…

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

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

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge

The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers

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