To pick up even the quickening of wind
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
A kind of snow, which hesitates
And so I gaze avidly
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
To have been claimed by what we see of what
Unreadable from behind—they are well down
Bronze the sky, with no
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
What? What can you do?
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
A kind of snow, which hesitates
And so I gaze avidly
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
To have been claimed by what we see of what
Unreadable from behind—they are well down
Bronze the sky, with no
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
What? What can you do?
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
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