Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…

Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…

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

According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field

As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right

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

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

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

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

I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,

It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,

Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides

Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—

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