a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island

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—

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

By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.

SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.

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

This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...

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

Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…

Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue

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

I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.

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