Billows the fog, cloaks
—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint
To reach out into its own vanishing
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
Along the walls are only empty niches,
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
IV. The Paths to Cathay
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.