Subtle, clever brain, wiser than I am,

That makes us write-Let us acknowledge it-Men would be silent.We are not menTherefore we can speakAnd be conscious(of the two sides)Unbent by the sensualAs befits accuracy.I then said:Dare you make thisYour propaganda?And he answered:Am I not I-here?

flames as it has flamedoften before but notwith the cold firethat closes round me this year.Thirtyfive yearsI lived with my husband.The plumtree is white todaywith masses of flowers.Masses of flowersload the cherry branchesand color some bushesyellow and some redbut the grief in my heartis stronger than theyfor though they were my joyformerly, today I notice…

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!

——————It has always been the fashion to talk about the moon.2This that I have struggled against is the very thing I should have chosen—but all’s right now. They said I could not put the flower back into the stem nor win roses upon dead briars and I like a fool believed them. But all’s right…

so remote a thing. It is a fieldof the wild carrot takingthefield by force; the grassdoes not raise above it.Here is no question of whiteness,white as can be, with a purple moleat the center of each flower.Each flower is a hand’s spanof her whiteness. Whereverhis hand has lain there isa tiny purple blossom under his…

beside her on a small tablenear the rank, disheveled bed–Wrinkled and nearly blindshe lay and snoredrousing with anger in her tonesto cry for food,Gimme something to eat–They’re starving me–I’m all right–I won’t goto the hospital.No, no, noGive me something to eat!Let me take youto the hospital, I saidand after you are wellyou can do as…