Marcel

A salamander scuttles across the quiet
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
IX. After the Great Northern Expedition
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
Sought to contrive, intending to express
In the woods, close by,
My keyhole blows a gale
In the woods, close by,
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent—
Dim, and die tonight?
And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they
I bring down a bit of its light
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
So you can watch me watch uplifted snow
That desire has ever built, have approached