Blurring the terrain,Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,snowdrops and crocuses might be fooledA rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,How can they get the point of how a worldTo listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,Calling me to you with wild gesturingsIn Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretchingsnoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.Down the long course of the gray slush of thingsshaded by live oaks and bottlebrush treesSculpting each tree to fit your ghostly formAmong us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,By the design of our own silent eyesThey move against, or through, or by, or toward.with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
