Rachelle

Against which we have been projected? What . . .
I know,
Still has to be intoned, as in a lonely
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
Yes. You'd want that said, (if you
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
This gap in time, this season not their own,
Bronze the sky, with no
Never does any motion, sound, or light
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,
Dreaming time has reversed�and you,
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
And the worlds�skiffs rudderless, rolling on�
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
Late February, and the air's so balmy
It's snowing, it's returning to a town
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
Like theirs ends? From what distant point of vision