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 by
Glimmering of light:
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
But when, on the timepieces that we call
By what it seems to have moved toward. In any
Among 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 what
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Cuts out of its width (81). Unfair
Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snow
Given by nature will soak into it.