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

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

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...

My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together

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

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

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

Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of

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

It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,

I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter