Pierced by the mist that fades away,
And off the white smoke swims
With a hand freed from weight,
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;
—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint
By trees—or might see as the masonry
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
References
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Seized from creation by nonentity,
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Bronze the sky, with no
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
Yes. You'd want that said, (if you
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
I bring down a bit of its light