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

I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge

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

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

First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.

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

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

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

One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn

I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.

Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of

ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…