Jacob

Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
Rain. We are forced to fly,
Snow haze gleams like sand.
The line between the outside and this room
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
They move against, or through, or by, or toward.
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
Centimeters�that the height of the canvas
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
And piled up at the base of the columns
P�re and M�re Chose could be in conversation
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
But when, on the timepieces that we call
Dreaming time has reversed�and you,
Dismal, endless plain�
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates