Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail

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...

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

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

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

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

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.

Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…

"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—

It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.

A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which

These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night

Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a worthy...