Subject: Celina

From: "darrelle kristo" <[email-masked]>
Date: Mon, 2 Apr 2007 09:43:47 +0300

Allowing me to let your picture form and wake
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
The mortal architect had brought to life,
He is harsh, dismal, ice-that is, exiled;
Shadows keep piling up as surfaces
Would their world not remain comfortably
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Like theirs ends? From what distant point of vision
Empty streets I come upon by chance,
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
Winds blow sharp, what then?
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,