When Arctic winds crack down from Canada
Late February, and the air's so balmy
The purest form is always the one
Merely a mockery of spring
Seized from creation by nonentity,
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snow
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
And I would like
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
Along the walls are only empty niches,
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough