some cut-ups:

I am ladderlike, wooden, stretching into the distant extent of mostly dry grave

and there is the sound of the mountain torrent behaving

there is that monotony that, whether large or small: it shuts one up as in a dream

wet locks of a silent moment

cigarette was his jar of fresh water

there were no hands to prepare broideries

washed away the dust and the “Leave him there.”

poor beast fell beneath scene of a fierce struggle

she had never known surgical skill, learned as her silent moment,

drawing through things with marvelous rapidity

left alone with the landscape

her hand the wet locks of observation and intuition;

gold gleaming in it by her knowledge