The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

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

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

First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.

Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows

If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…

This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...

Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous

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

O’€”eh’€”lee! La’€”la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…

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

Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,

The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go