Harriet

there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
Again awaken from your being gone to find
Billows the fog, cloaks
(Our fortitude grows dim in
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;
That open before me? What I see
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.
Silent patch of ultimate paint. You are
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
Of too much truth to do much more than lie
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.

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