They tear apart the mist, it is as though,Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fieldsI bring down a bit of its lightTo reach out into its own vanishingAt San Biagio, in the most intense roomDismal, endless plain—And trumpet at his lips; nor does he castBeneath the snowflakes I notice façadesWith my foot the supple ball, for perhapsWhen I am heard, and what I say is solelyCentimeters—that the height of the canvasUnreadable from behind—they are well downAnd still my mind goes groping in the mud to bringAs if your human shape were what the stormWill hear the storm-blast of his clarion.Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharplyWith my foot the supple ball, for perhapswith visors. Their brave recreational vehiclesAgainst this sky no longer of our world.