At San Biagio, in the most intense room
—Now that you notice it—have just moved past
Yes. You'd want that said, (if you
Of meaning like these—the world created by
To reach out into its own vanishing
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
End of the comedy.
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
By what it seems to have moved toward. In any
At these masses the snow hides from me.
This third day of our January thaw,
It's snowing, it's returning to a town
By trees—or might see as the masonry
—Now that you notice it—have just moved past
Yes. You'd want that said, (if you
Of meaning like these—the world created by
To reach out into its own vanishing
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
End of the comedy.
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
By what it seems to have moved toward. In any
At these masses the snow hides from me.
This third day of our January thaw,
It's snowing, it's returning to a town
By trees—or might see as the masonry
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