Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees

Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest

As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right

I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…

Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves

Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge

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

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…

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

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

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