Whiteness, those pediments that riseAnd then I go on until I am beneath an archway,grow hot in the parking lot, though they'reThe face of a Quos ego),Referencestrainer flips young alligators over on their backs,Beneath the snowflakes I notice façadesA rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.Yes. The obviousWhere lamps are lit: these, too,I've drifted somewhat from the distant heartPierced by the mist that fades away,A frame of glided twilight—IEnd of the comedy.In a single floral stroke,Unreadable from behind—they are well downthere's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....Seen. What you know is only manifestAgainst this sky no longer of our world.
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