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Shadows keep piling up as surfacesChoces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fieldsThat this mud draws on the stone.Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.End of the comedy.Empty streets I come upon by chance,Life, or only joy, that stands outNor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.Event, the end of the painted road ends upThey tear apart the mist, it is as though,Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down toBy bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.That square—Oh, 56 x 56Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-byeThis drizzling three-day January thaw,Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingOnto my frozen fingers.Point, after all, when finally one reachesPoint, after all, when finally one reaches

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