Down the long course of the gray slush of things
Along the walls are only empty niches,
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Centimeters—that the height of the canvas
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
With a hand freed from weight,
The purest form is always the one
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
Away, my songs, must we go
People might see to be the opening