Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
That images of roads, whether composed
Coextensive with everything? How could they know?
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
Is the moon to grow
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
That this mud draws on the stone.
I know,
Gray the cloud-like oaks
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
Allowing me to let your picture form and wake
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
That images of roads, whether composed
Coextensive with everything? How could they know?
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
Is the moon to grow
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
That this mud draws on the stone.
I know,
Gray the cloud-like oaks
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
Allowing me to let your picture form and wake
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
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