soon, fumiter-crowned, you bore the strown
hedge on water,
    where was the center under ashes,
and the sparrow before

where is the hedge,
from the hedge,
    said the sparrow,
set, the hedge bruised

with leaves, floating, and the tortured
grew, and those before appearance,
    like waves,
decayed, bent over,

again, you said,
where is the hedge, said the sparrow,

    where whit,
said whit-
age, whitecaps,
white cliffs
, then you crossed the logical sand







Or the behind snow, which is errant

In the Renaissance to die meant

to give way

But I couldn’t erase the erasure

in the snow

If there be that sensation of a carrying . . .

Nap of the found

The hands almost impossible

to take, the snow

too light to take

The wave heads tipping into

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