My son, my daughter
No one could accuse Hammershøi
Not
Now all I have is the presence
Objectivists are metaphysical
Old man
Old Wyldes is a former farmhouse
Once by the lake in Chicago I recalled
Once in the valley of Jezreel
Once more I name a city
Once there was Jerzyk
One softly hinted
Our daily work is touched by
Pebble, ‘magic mountain’, packed
Rise and shine
She died before her time: is named the late
She leaves me at the photographs
Sun sets the scene of quiet without: the land
Synagoga, weep for joy
Ten seconds later
The hardened heart of rock was still
The house is full of absence
The river is the mother of the city
The sleeping passion of volcanic stone
The song of a Jewess returns us
The street was whole
They sweep away pebbles
Through myself, I see
Through the train
To die old
To sense
Towards the focal point
Truly, a philosopher index of first lines
81
137
25
21
61
76
159
41
39
53
146
22
82
30
47
41
92
71
42
35
16
50
70
93
45
19
12
17
51
67
77
15
32
171
