the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoon
And beyond, the same sound of bees
demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
and turn it into something cartoon-funny.
The mortal architect had brought to life,
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
Between the high and the low, in this night.
I bring down a bit of its light
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
What? What can you do?
XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea
Never does any motion, sound, or light