ΟΥΙΛΛΙΑΜ ΚΑΡΛΟΣ ΟΥΙΛΛΙΑΜΣ

 

WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS

 

THE POEM

 

It’s all in
the sound. A song.
Seldom a song. It should

 

be a song — made of
particulars, wasps,
a gentian — something
immediate, open
scissors, a lady’s
eyes — waking
centrifugal, centripetal