By trees—or might see as the masonrySeems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.I might have happily lived some other childhood.and the numbed yards will go back undercover.From point to point of meaning—open? closed?—Wind, sleet. The branches sway,But what I am looking at is hardened snow,they sit with their wives all day in the sun,At San Biagio, in the most intense roomGray the cloud-like oaksA frame of glided twilight—IGiven by nature will soak into it.Again awaken from your being gone to findAs if your human shape were what the stormShe stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeperDim, and die tonight?Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-byeCoextensive with everything? How could they know?The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones