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Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
With a hand freed from weight,
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
By the design of our own silent eyes
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
Everywhere, utterly.
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
Place of absorbing snow, itself to be
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
Shadows keep piling up as surfaces
Seized from creation by nonentity,
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,