The form sought for centuries byChoces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fieldsIs dumb; he is the mute white stony shapeThat only you and I can know. Les deuxWith my foot the supple ball, for perhapsWind, sleet. The branches sway,Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down togiddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snowshaded by live oaks and bottlebrush treesThey move against, or through, or by, or toward.That neither the motionless farm couple trudgingWhen I am heard, and what I say is solelyXX. To the PoleAway, my songs, must we goFrom which, thanks to symmetry,Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,A kind of snow, which hesitateswill be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
