Slip is one
law of crash
among dozens.

For we want to make off 
with things that are not
our own. There is a pleasure

Much
of life is Dutch
one-digit operations

Mrs. MacAdam who hired the waitresses
told me to buy white shoes, three metal
grommets, safety pins, hairnets, said

When they are there,
I eat pears, says Mrs Last,
who likes pears best

One can’t work
by lime light.
A bowl full

(What a Trojan horse) 
thought Matrigupta, 
rewarded for his verse 

I don’t have to tell you. The small birds—
red and black finches, khaki banana quits—
invaded our bungalow, snatched crumbs, devoured

There is snow on Vesuvius
And the barometer has dropped to one.
Winter again and Spring suspended

It is
so snug—
the skin