With a hand freed from weight,
What? What can you do?
The form sought for centuries by
To pick up even the quickening of wind
Winds blow sharp, what then?
And piled up at the base of the columns
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Pere
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
Rain. We are forced to fly,
Late February, and the air's so balmy
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
Between the high and the low, in this night.
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
In a single floral stroke,