Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
(Our fortitude grows dim in
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
In white, in paint too representative
In white, in paint too representative
By what it seems to have moved toward. In any
Beneath the snowflakes I notice façades
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
For any part of them we can make out
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
Glimmering of light:
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
Where lamps are lit: these, too,