Toward something that the world is pointing towardIn stone waves and rock waters, far from day,XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Seasnowdrops and crocuses might be fooledthe old men burnish stories of Yaz and the BabeSphinx of questioning substance, or a sortHow can they get the point of how a worldat balls hit again and again toward her offspring.Given by nature will soak into it.Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to passAlberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,and the numbed yards will go back undercover.The winged winds, captives of that age-old foeCome, swallows, it's good-bye.Centimeters—that the height of the canvasI seek, above all, in the wanderingGray the cloud-like oaksEscapees from the cold work of living,
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