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

By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields

You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!

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…

It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for

According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field

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...

Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,

Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…

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

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

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.