Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:

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

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

You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich

Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...

Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am

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

the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie

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

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

There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire