Guarding the Edge of Père

Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
and the numbed yards will go back undercover.
When I am heard, and what I say is solely
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
Away, my songs, must we go
Late February, and the air’s so balmy
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
XX. To the Pole
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
That desire has ever built, have approached
By the design of our own silent eyes
into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard
So you can watch me watch uplifted snow
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
What is there in the depths of these walls
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to