5 de Agosto, 2007

In the sound of the snow. What the countless
Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snow
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
Away, my songs, must we go
The edge of that other square cut from the right
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Against this sky no longer of our world.
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
Against this sky no longer of our world.

then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.
Astonished that you have returned to go
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
Glimmering of light:
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply
to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular
XVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the Fram
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
People might see to be the opening
Oh you builders,
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
Away, my songs, must we go
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
Cuts out of its width (81). Unfair
Sought to contrive, intending to express
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake