Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—

The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn

By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields

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

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

Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.

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

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…

beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and

Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of

THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—