Hoarfrost is in his bones and

Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
Before those virile women!
I seek, above all, in the wandering
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
I bring down a bitof its light
their bellies, they’re out cold, instantaneously
Merely a mockery of spring
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white