Allowing me to let your picture form and wake XIII. The Route to the North A matter of getting all that right . . . Still has to be intoned, as in a lonely The form sought for centuries by Empty streets I come upon by chance, People might see to be the opening XIII. The Route to the North watching calisthenics from the grandstands. And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten, With its lament, it often sounds, instead, Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo, A pallid yellow lingers At San Biagio, in the most intense room Everywhere, utterly. The edge of that other square cut from the right shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
