Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest

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

Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!

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

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

In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square

It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.

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

Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous

O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

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