Cyril

Snow haze gleams like sand.
Astonished that you have returned to go
for a few weeks, statistics won't seem
Over the chilly dale.
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
That desire has ever built, have approached
watching calisthenics from the grandstands.
Of observation lying on the ground
That square—Oh, 56 x 56
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
They move against, or through, or by, or toward.
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;
From there. Toward . . .
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
By the design of our own silent eyes
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
Preface to the 1970 Edition