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Snow haze gleams like sand.
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
To follow in the path of their brief blossoming
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
How can they get the point of how a world
to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
And piled up at the base of the columns
By what it seems to have moved toward. In any
In Florida, it's strawberry season—
demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
Winds blow sharp, what then?
As it sits there like an eventual
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
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