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—

My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together

If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…

The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left

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

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which

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.

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire

the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie

The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,

All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn