They are all happy over their very good number,
an easy square; its root, six,
itself a lovely number, exponential chrysalis.

In a filmy stench of slaughterhouse
I see the image of my body, half-naked,
ignored, almost dead. This is the way,

Wrong shirt at Ocean Park—
what you want preps an elementary doxy
for dogmatic chasing.

Wind from the northwestern quarter is lifting him high above
the dove-gray, crimson, umber, brown
Connecticut Valley. Far beneath,

What composes a life? Mine comes, too much, from books;
but also the sense that, if you climbed high places,

you would see the streets go on with nothing to end them,

Their tracings, nearly identical.
Knowing, tonight
if I start with one I should carry through,

Yellow is the most
primary of the colors,
owing nothing to any

Is there no music now
except the chime
of coins in the pocket

O barbarian’s pupil-eye encircled
by the sun-born verdure of the Po!
Italy has only one morning of life,

On the sand
a
lizard