This drizzling three-day January thaw,
Snow haze gleams like sand.
Gray the cloud-like oaks
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Is the moon to grow
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
People might see to be the opening
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
At the white place of the road's vanishing
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Escapees from the cold work of living,