vfo3o

Dreaming time has reversed�and you,
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop
Across the heavens' gray.
The purest form is always the one
The line between the outside and this room
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
Bronze the sky, with no
As it sits there like an eventual
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
Glimmering of light:
What? What can you do?
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
My keyhole blows a gale
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye