Malcolm

In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
In a single floral stroke,
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
Would their world not remain comfortably
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
Out of the road into a way across
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
Before those virile women!
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
I do not betray you, I still go forward,
High on this surface, guarding the edge of P�re
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
As if your human shape were what the storm
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
Winds blow sharp, what then?
Wheezing ravens, when
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.