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

My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.

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

You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.

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

Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.

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

Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang

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!

When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves

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

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

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

The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me

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