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

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

Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…

Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am

A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing

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

SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire

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...

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

When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,

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

A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…