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

Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…

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—

Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides

The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.

While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on

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

My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.

A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.

It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for