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Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-byeAlberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,Yes. The obviousBy what it seems to have moved toward. In anySo, startled, quivering,and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired menThat only you and I can know. Les deuxWill hear the storm-blast of his clarion.Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent�<br>A frame of glided twilight�Iwill be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.Sits at the limit of a kind of worldGreen lilac buds appear that won't surviveAs if your absence now concluded long ago.Empty streets I come upon by chance,High on this surface, guarding the edge of P&#232;reAcross the heavens' gray.Wind, sleet. The branches sway,End of the comedy.