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In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.Event, the end of the painted road ends up Floating on the sky.shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees Stunned in their voiceless way to be aliveBillows the fog, cloaks Sits at the limit of a kind of worldAnd up there I cannot tell if it is still End of the comedy.Only a fox whose den I cannot find. In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,This gap in time, this season not their own, Sits at the limit of a kind of worldTraces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon I might have happily lived some other childhood.In stone waves and rock waters, far from day, Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,The face of a Quos ego),