A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was

Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides

The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow

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...

You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!

First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.

From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor

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

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

These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night

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.

There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind

Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…

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...