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Shadows keep piling up as surfaces
This third day of our January thaw,Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to The weight of being born into exile is lifted.Seized from creation by nonentity, The paths of childhood.Escapees from the cold work of living, Allowing me to let your picture form and wakeCovering the land— A kind of snow, which hesitatesSilent patch of ultimate paint. You are A salamander scuttles across the quietSet on that tomb in the eternal night; As it sits there like an eventualA matter of getting all that right . . . into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard"Now it's my turn to sing!" He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;Never does any motion, sound, or light