Of too much truth to do much more than lie
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
What is there in the depths of these walls
I bring down a bit of its light
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
Yes. The obvious
and turn it into something cartoon-funny.
The edge of that other square cut from the right
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Figures of light and dark, these two are walking
What? What can you do?
Right, and appears from here to be overcome
Blurring the terrain,
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;