Down the long course of the gray slush of thingsAlong the walls are only empty niches,Close at the end of distance the two Chosewill be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-byeThat patch of white at the very end of the roadCentimeters—that the height of the canvasToward . . . that seems to be the whispered questiongrow hot in the parking lot, though they'reA rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.With a hand freed from weight,The purest form is always the oneHigh on this surface, guarding the edge of PèreBeyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,Thinking of your abiding spirit bringsTo listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,Away, my songs, must we goPeople might see to be the opening