Trampled snow is the only rose.Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingStanding in the way of the truth. A whiteIn white, in paint too representativeYes. You'd want that said, (if youBetween the high and the low, in this night.the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoonthey sit with their wives all day in the sun,Green lilac buds appear that won't surviveTo pick up even the quickening of windAnd beyond, the same sound of beesAlberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,Swaying in unison beneath the snow,What can we know of whatever picture-planeLooms in the air, deliberate and slow,Point, after all, when finally one reachesWhere, as I discover as I go throughAnd melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
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