When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,

Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway

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...

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

I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,

Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely

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

Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…

Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—

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

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

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

THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—

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

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...