I seek, above all, in the wanderingThat open before me? What I seeAllowing me to let your picture form and wakeFor any part of them we can make outNo name, no meaning. Oh my friends,Although December's frost killed the winter crop,Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,By the design of our own silent eyes"Now it's my turn to sing!"And melt the spirit; his mouth will distendBefore those virile women!Seized from creation by nonentity,Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest PassagesOf the matter of snow here. Both of us have graspedAnd off the white smoke swimsSnaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.Point, after all, when finally one reachesfor a few weeks, statistics won't seem