The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island

To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...

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

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…

The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,

They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…

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

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

Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…

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

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

The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow