13 de Julio, 2007

Away from their profundity of surface.
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
Is the moon to grow
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
Gray the cloud-like oaks
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
Away from their profundity of surface.
Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snow
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
Again awaken from your being gone to find
Preface to the 1970 Edition
By trees—or might see as the masonry
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
To have been claimed by what we see of what
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart

By what it seems to have moved toward. In any
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
XV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely Expedition
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
Are muffled into silence that refuses
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
And off the white smoke swims
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
End of the comedy.
This gap in time, this season not their own,
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
People might see to be the opening