Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…

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

In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…

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

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge

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

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.

It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .

The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...

Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway

From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor

Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass

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...