Calling me to you with wild gesturings
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
I bring down a bit of its light
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
This perfection, this absence.
Across the heavens' gray.
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
Seized from creation by nonentity,
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
More beautiful than anything in this world.
How can they get the point of how a world
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
Like theirs ends? From what distant point of vision
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
I bring down a bit of its light
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
This perfection, this absence.
Across the heavens' gray.
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
Seized from creation by nonentity,
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
More beautiful than anything in this world.
How can they get the point of how a world
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
Like theirs ends? From what distant point of vision
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
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