marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Merely a mockery of spring
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
Standing in the way of the truth. A white
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Sought to contrive, intending to express
That this mud draws on the stone.
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
Snow haze gleams like sand.
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the
XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
Would their world not remain comfortably
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Merely a mockery of spring
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
Standing in the way of the truth. A white
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Sought to contrive, intending to express
That this mud draws on the stone.
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
Snow haze gleams like sand.
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the
XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
Would their world not remain comfortably
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