And piled up at the base of the columns
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
Rain. We are forced to fly,
That this mud draws on the stone.
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
Blurring the terrain,
It's snowing, it's returning to a town
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Gray the cloud-like oaks
Never does any motion, sound, or light
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
End of the comedy.
My only thought is for what has
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
Wheezing ravens, when
and preening, dancing on the basepaths,
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
Rain. We are forced to fly,
That this mud draws on the stone.
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
Blurring the terrain,
It's snowing, it's returning to a town
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Gray the cloud-like oaks
Never does any motion, sound, or light
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
End of the comedy.
My only thought is for what has
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
Wheezing ravens, when
and preening, dancing on the basepaths,
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