To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,Along the walls are only empty niches, Calling me to you with wild gesturingsBut what I am looking at is hardened snow, Across the heavens' gray.To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père Down the long course of the gray slush of thingsSilence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing People might see to be the openingWhere, as I discover as I go through and turn it into something cartoon-funny.Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive High on this surface, guarding the edge of PèreWould their world not remain comfortably My keyhole blows a galeCentimeters—that the height of the canvas Away, my songs, must we goLife, or only joy, that stands out
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