Everywhere, utterly.
and turn it into something cartoon-funny.Empty streets I come upon by chance,
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,Against this sky no longer of our world.
Is it almost honey, is it snow?High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he castThat neither the motionless farm couple trudging
At these masses the snow hides from me.Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Shadows keep piling up as surfacesAs it sits there like an eventual
Seized from creation by nonentity,Trampled snow is the only rose.
snoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,As if your absence now concluded long ago.
Down the long course of the gray slush of thingsV. The Dutch in the Arctic
|
|