Luke

With a hand freed from weight,
then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
Of meaning like these�the world created by
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
Standing in the way of the truth. A white
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
Summer bees were saying
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
Never does any motion, sound, or light
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
Bronze the sky, with no
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
The mortal architect had brought to life,
Trampled snow is the only rose.
And the worlds�skiffs rudderless, rolling on�
The purest form is always the one