A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.

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.

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

the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie

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

This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees

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

Fools have big wombs. For the rest?—here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there’l...

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers

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