Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow

O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…

Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:

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

There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind

Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…

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

A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing

I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge

WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one

You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich

contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…

To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...