Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of

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—

The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow

The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me

An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…

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

NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,

This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which

I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine

The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls

Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.

You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!