A pallid yellow lingers
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
I seek, above all, in the wandering
XX. To the Pole
The pain of being born into matter.
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
XVII. Greenland
Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
What is there in the depths of these walls
By the design of our own silent eyes
That images of roads, whether composed
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
The road, but not far enough ahead
And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
I seek, above all, in the wandering
XX. To the Pole
The pain of being born into matter.
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
XVII. Greenland
Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
What is there in the depths of these walls
By the design of our own silent eyes
That images of roads, whether composed
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
The road, but not far enough ahead
And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
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