Of observation lying on the ground
demonstrating their talent for comedy-stroke
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
In a single floral stroke,
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
and preening, dancing on the basepaths,
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
What is there in the depths of these walls
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
Centimeters-that the height of the canvas
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm