Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last Of too much truth to do much more than lieNever does any motion, sound, or light Come, swallows, it's good-bye.Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white, Come, swallows, it's good-bye.Place of absorbing snow, itself to be And melt the spirit; his mouth will distendHow can they get the point of how a world for a few weeks, statistics won't seemIs dumb; he is the mute white stony shape Rain. We are forced to fly,Toward the still dab of white that oscillates Along the walls are only empty niches,will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus. Beneath the snowflakes I notice façadesAt the white place of the road's vanishing The snowflakes are swirling, blotting outTo have been claimed by what we see of what
[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
