Still has to be intoned, as in a lonelySilence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;The mortal architect had brought to life,That images of roads, whether composedI bring down a bit of its light
Glimmering of light:This third day of our January thaw,Before those virile women!Are gliding toward me on the ice intoand preening, dancing on the basepaths,Where lamps are lit: these, too,Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for deadThe pain of being born into matter.