Seen. What you know is only manifest
End of the comedy.
In white, in paint too representative
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Seized from creation by nonentity,
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
Seized from creation by nonentity,
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
As it sits there like an eventual
To pick up even the quickening of wind
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
Dreaming time has reversed�and you,
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
From there. Toward . . .
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
End of the comedy.
In white, in paint too representative
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Seized from creation by nonentity,
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
Seized from creation by nonentity,
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
As it sits there like an eventual
To pick up even the quickening of wind
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
Dreaming time has reversed�and you,
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
From there. Toward . . .
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
