No name, no meaning. Oh my friends, I know,Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form. At San Biagio, in the most intense roomThat open before me? What I see Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent—<BR>Beneath the snowflakes I notice façades To run, as in the time of the bee, seekingshortcake, waffles, berries and cream Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massedThe form sought for centuries by And beyond, the same sound of beesBlurring the terrain, The paths of childhood.In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired menA rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur. The paths of childhood.The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
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