The high whites spread over the buried earth.How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,Seen. What you know is only manifestFor any part of them we can make outBetween the high and the low, in this night.Like some poor wounded wretchlong left for deadCalling me to you with wild gesturingsTo reach out into its own vanishingThe pain of being born into matter.I do not betray you, I still go forward,By bloody poolrattling, gasping his last.That squareOh, 56 x 56grow hot in the parking lot, though they'reI bring down a bit of its lightIn dense bare branches, or the ubiquitousAgainst which we have been projected? What . . .Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet paintedReshaping magnified, each risen flakethe old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
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