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To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
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The pain of being born into matter.
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
People might see to be the opening
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
From which, thanks to symmetry,
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
And I would like
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,