The distractingness of the stairs, do they go down, or up?
The mirror of a game, a hedge of the eye.
The exact framework of the sense of the passage,
and the stairs, in a party, to the steeple, to the subject.
A chair, calm, in a cheat, to the stage,
to the friendliness of a shroud of glass,
aslant a consciousness of the technical difficulty of lace,
the veil, the sacred phalanx of a shade
of the uplifted eyelids of screen,
and the opening, fleeting, to the transparent desires,
token of falling, in a sort of the uncertain finished,
a terrible imagination, for the melancholy body of the ground,
then simple, level, laughing, in the full world of subjects,
a car, a crow, the shutters, a look-out.

With the interestingness of a crowd to a doctor,
a tray of the casual, the heavenly successor of a theater,
happy, a parallel level, the hermit's table, in the half-world,
in the refreshingness of things, the attractions of a series,
the general repetition of a balanced thing,
a block of architecture, and the evidence of doors,
the reflected discoveries of a drawer of place,
and always, in a corner, the square, the courtyard,
otherwise, to move, to foresee,
in the idea of a backward doorstep, the pockets of a panorama,
for the outward admiringness of memory,
and a detail of a block of the former, paradoxically,
to the tiled mentality, tranquility,
in the senseless outline of things,
the promptingness of a square of newspaper,
a confidant of the details of the small,
the fountains of a miracle.

A bit of the vertical, for the process of nature,
the proof of a colored tree,
to the wooden sense of a genuine, unknown.
The fullness of the eye of a glimmer of roof,
to the age of traffic.

In the decorations of puddles, a piece of the thin universe,
in the road, to the contrary, clung,
the unchallengeable ghosts, for the besieged, for the senses,
the importance of irony, to feel grateful, studying,
the best rebellion of architecture,
the indifferent dismissal of a gothic force,
in the land's sensitiveness of march, to reach,
to the humble ones, for the purple unmovingness of the town,
in the stuck-on shade of solidity, the beauty of the futile,
the pleasure of the memory of the dwelling
of a matter of a reflection,
the lyrical feelings of a delicate understanding.

With the surgingness of a postmark,
the letters of a reprimand, in the usual scrawl,
the knowingness of the slightest world,
in big moments, to the use of truth, a bell.