Date: Sun, 17 Jun 2007 01:56:34 +0300
Archangel Winter, darkness on his backFigures of light and dark, these two are walkingIn Florida, it's strawberry season—As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,What? What can you do?Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,That desire has ever built, have approachedon their own little seat cushions, wearing soft capsGrateful, I know, for just such compensations,Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,The line between the outside and this roomThe mortal architect had brought to life,Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;Out of the picture of life, as it were, outThis third day of our January thaw,How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,Is it almost honey, is it snow?to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular
