The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…

Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow

Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,

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...

Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a worthy...

the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie

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

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

unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line

My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.

The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls

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

Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang