Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
More beautiful than anything in this world.
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
Yes. You'd want that said, (if you
Unreadable from behind—they are well down
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
That open before me? What I see
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
And so I gaze avidly
In Florida, it's strawberry season—
Blurring the terrain,
The mortal architect had brought to life,
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
More beautiful than anything in this world.
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
Yes. You'd want that said, (if you
Unreadable from behind—they are well down
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
That open before me? What I see
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
And so I gaze avidly
In Florida, it's strawberry season—
Blurring the terrain,
The mortal architect had brought to life,
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped