That neither the motionless farm couple trudgingAcross the heavens' gray.To a higher level of appearance.From point to point of meaning—open? closed?—V. The Dutch in the ArcticThey move against, or through, or by, or toward.In white, in paint too representativeSeems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.For any part of them we can make outV. The Dutch in the Arcticwill come, blighting our harbingers of spring,and preening, dancing on the basepaths,Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to passBetween the high and the low, in this night.Allowing me to let your picture form and wakeNever does any motion, sound, or lightAlberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
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