Of too much truth to do much more than lieIn dense bare branches, or the ubiquitousAnd he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;Its consciousness of my white consciousness,snowdrops and crocuses might be fooledWhat is there in the depths of these wallsI bring down a bit of its lightTo watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—<BR>Yes. The obviousand turn it into something cartoon-funny.The edge of that other square cut from the rightwhose soft bristles graze the top-racks.Figures of light and dark, these two are walkingWhat? What can you do?Right, and appears from here to be overcomeBlurring the terrain,Toward something that the world is pointing towardSilence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;