Partly stone, partly the absence of stone, And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten, Come, swallows, it's good-bye. Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze Set on that tomb in the eternal night; Green lilac buds appear that won't survive they sit with their wives all day in the sun, Not daring to oppose My keyhole blows a gale That images of roads, whether composed >From point to point of meaning-open? closed?- The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones In Florida, it's strawberry season- Brush the lone giant in that somber pall. In a single floral stroke, When Arctic winds crack down from Canada Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass, Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing Want anything said at all, which I still doubt) [Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
