Salvatore

So you can watch me watch uplifted snow
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
From which, thanks to symmetry,
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
Shadows keep piling up as surfaces
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
This gap in time, this season not their own,
Choces, MХre and PХre, undreaming even of fields
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
A frame of glided twilight≈I
Bronze the sky, with no
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
More beautiful than anything in this world.
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
Coextensive with everything? How could they know?
Between the high and the low, in this night.
Comes up with as a means to its own end.