They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fields
I bring down a bit of its light
To reach out into its own vanishing
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
Dismal, endless plain—
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
Beneath the snowflakes I notice façades
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
When I am heard, and what I say is solely
Centimeters—that the height of the canvas
Unreadable from behind—they are well down
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
As if your human shape were what the storm
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
Against this sky no longer of our world.