Glimmering of light:
Never does any motion, sound, or light
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
Empty streets I come upon by chance,
In a single floral stroke,
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
Right, and appears from here to be overcome
Of observation lying on the ground
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
Snow haze gleams like sand.
Dim, and die tonight?
Never does any motion, sound, or light
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
Empty streets I come upon by chance,
In a single floral stroke,
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
Right, and appears from here to be overcome
Of observation lying on the ground
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
Snow haze gleams like sand.
Dim, and die tonight?
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