Let the snake wait under

in the background the returnfrom the hunt it is toward eveningfrom the leftsturdy hunters lead intheir pack the inn-signhanging from abroken hinge is a stag a crucifixbetween his antlers the coldinn yard isdeserted but for a huge bonfirethat flares wind-driven tended bywomen who clusterabout it to the right beyondthe hill is a pattern of skatersBrueghel…

where the streets endin the sunat the marsh edgeand the reeds beginand there are small housesfacing the reedsand the blue mist in the distancewith grapevine trelliseswith grape clusterssmall as strawberrieson the vinesand ditchesrunning springwaterthat continue the gutterswith willows over them.The reeds beginlike water at a shoretheir pointed petals wavingdark green and light.But blueflags are blossomingin…

for you have it over a troopof artists-unless one should scour the world-you have the ground sense necessary.See! the hearse leads.I begin with a design for a hearse.For Christ’s sake not black-nor white either – and not polished!Let it be whethered – like a farm wagon –with gilt wheels (this could beapplied fresh at small…

changed by white curtains –Smell of cleanliness –Sunshine of late afternoon –On the glass traya glass pitcher, the tumblerturned down, by whicha key is lying – And theimmaculate white bed

of no consequence–patter, patter, patter.Hand in hand little windsblow the thin streams aslant.Warm. Distance cut off. Seclusion.A few passers-by, drawn in upon themselves,hurry from one place to another.Winds of the white poppy! there is no escape!–An interminable talking, talking,talking . . .it has happened before.Backward, backward, backward.

is upon the world!Yellow, yellow, yellowit eats into the leaves,smears with saffronthe horned branched the leanheavilyagainst a smooth purple sky!There is no lightonly a honey-thick stainthat drips from leaf to leafand limb to limbspoiling the colorsof the whole world-you far off there underthe wine-red selvage of the west!