Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
Yes. The obvious
By what it seems to have moved toward. In any
So, startled, quivering,
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
That only you and I can know. Les deux
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent?
A frame of glided twilight?I
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
Empty streets I come upon by chance,
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
Across the heavens' gray.
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
End of the comedy.