After reading Ash Wednesday
she looked once at the baked beans
and fled. Luncheonless, poor girl,
she observed a kind of poetic Lent—
...
Rotting in the wet gray air
the railroad depot stands deserted under
still green trees. In the fields
cold begins an end.
...
Ink-black, but moving independently
across the black and white parquet of print,
the ant cancels the author out. The page,
...
Out of a high meadow where flowers
bloom above cloud, come down;
pursue me with reasons for smiling without malice.
...
What's geography? What difference what mountain
it is? In the intimacy of this altitude
its discolored snowfields overhang half the world.
...
At supper time an ondine's narrow feet
made dark tracks on the hearth.
Like the heart of a yellow fruit was the fire's heat,
but they rubbed together quite blue with the cold.
...
Wheel of sorrow, centerless.
Voices, sad without cause,
slope upward, expiring on grave summits.
Mournfulness of muddy playgrounds,
...