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

Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses

When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves

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

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

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

In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…

Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of

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

It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .

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

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...