Winter blowing and a tack of ice, the lack
Of lice on the itching skin, and the wrack of flims
Y love is in the air, in the cold skins
Wilting and digressing, the flower-sacks
Like ball-sacks drooping, and the looping
Of the settled seeds. Verona's plucked the blossoms
And garlanded her tresses, thick and luxuriant
Of the absolute umber, sunsets
Overwhelming the coasts with flooded luxuries,
While the bay leaves flutter with exotic teas. Mind
Struck numb by the cold of passionate faces, signs
Sticking jabbed in the ice, rice-patties of white
Cocaine powdering Ceres sober
And rattled by shuddering wing, the fat owl and the king
Of frozen doves: my love, where are your icicled pickaninnies
Now? Such a long garland of limbs crusted over
The pine trees like sentinels of autumn color has collapsed
In a rooved rafter, and the taft is a thick soup on the lakes.