Dismal, endless plain—
But when, on the timepieces that we call
Billows the fog, cloaks
and turn it into something cartoon-funny.
Figures of light and dark, these two are walking
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
This perfection, this absence.
Glimmering of light:
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
Life, or only joy, that stands out
Dismal, endless plain—
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
Oh you builders,
Like theirs ends? From what distant point of vision