11 de Julio, 2007

Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
What is there in the depths of these walls
And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they
Of meaning like these—the world created by
Covering the land—
I do not betray you, I still go forward,
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
Standing in the way of the truth. A white
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
Preface to the 1948 Edition
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
I seek, above all, in the wandering
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
To have been claimed by what we see of what

Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
End of the comedy.
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Unreadable from behind—they are well down
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
Life, or only joy, that stands out
II. Quest and Conquest
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
That open before me? What I see
Snow haze gleams like sand.
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,