Date: Wed, 2 May 2007 00:03:09 -0700
Lucky the bell-still full and deep of throat,
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
Escapees from the cold work of living,
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
My keyhole blows a gale
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
That square-Oh, 56 x 56
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
Would their world not remain comfortably
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
Across the heavens' gray.
Covering the land-
To have been claimed by what we see of what
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
Blurring the terrain,
Shadows keep piling up as surfaces