The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge

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

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 thefield by force; the grass

THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—

SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.

A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…

I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter

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

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...

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

The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,

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…