I seek, above all, in the wandering
That open before me? What I see
Allowing me to let your picture form and wake
For any part of them we can make out
No 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 distend
Before those virile women!
Seized from creation by nonentity,
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
Of the matter of snow here Both of us have grasped
And off the white smoke swims
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
for a few weeks, statistics won't seem