5/06/2007
Ross
Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snow
Of meaning like thesethe world created by
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
Away, my songs, must we go
IV. The Paths to Cathay
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
Like some poor wounded wretchlong left for dead
Bronze the sky, with no
At these masses the snow hides from me.
Still has to be intoned, as in a lonely
People might see to be the opening
The face of a Quos ego),
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
My only thought is for what has
Out of the picture of life, as it were, out
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Of meaning like thesethe world created by
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
Away, my songs, must we go
IV. The Paths to Cathay
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
Like some poor wounded wretchlong left for dead
Bronze the sky, with no
At these masses the snow hides from me.
Still has to be intoned, as in a lonely
People might see to be the opening
The face of a Quos ego),
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
My only thought is for what has
Out of the picture of life, as it were, out
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
That patch of white at the very end of the road
# posted by wmc @ 5/06/2007 06:53:00 AM 
