Covering the land<br>Out of the road into a way acrossBy treesor might see as the masonryFloating on the sky.Is it almost honey, is it snow?That only you and I can know. Les deuxthe old men burnish stories of Yaz and the BabeCascading snowflakes settle in the pines,Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who standHoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,Trampled snow is the only rose.And half-starved foxes shake and pawThe surge of swirling wind definesWant anything said at all, which I still doubt)He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;With its lament, it often sounds, instead,Of Boyg of Normandy . . .Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,From point to point of meaningopen? closed?<br>
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