PREMIUM READY

Onto my frozen fingers.
Covering the land—
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
The paths of childhood.
That desire has ever built, have approached
Along the walls are only empty niches,
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
—Now that you notice it—have just moved past
Life, or only joy, that stands out
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
With a hand freed from weight,
Winds blow sharp, what then?
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
Again awaken from your being gone to find
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Empty streets I come upon by chance,