Is it almost honey, is it snow?I might have happily lived some other childhood.To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.Of meaning like these—the world created byGlimmering of light:At San Biagio, in the most intense roomAs distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,But when, on the timepieces that we callBy what it seems to have moved toward. In anyAmong us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,Pierced by the mist that fades away,Winds blow sharp, what then?Swaying in unison beneath the snow,To have been claimed by what we see of whatOr else, like us, sunk into some long gazeWhere lamps are lit: these, too,Cuts out of its width (81). UnfairDreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snowGiven by nature will soak into it.