Catastrophies beyond our true renown
Conscript us out of heaven till we stand
Embattled in our customs, going down.

Murdered me; why I have no thoughts at all.
Run your hands along my temples where something
Beats like a sea with no land, or a cry

Francesco’s fingers must have had their say
About the blessed living near the Word
With waxen doll or with a beating bird

I hoped to find under my skin
A lump embodying that which
Powers my words invisibly—

Today, autumn.
Heaven’s roots are still.
O holy trees, rejoicing ruin of leaves

The new sun rises in the year’s elevation,
over the low roofs’ perspective.
It reveals the roughness of winter skin

Our ancient lives enhanced their lively wit 
We hissed the cave shut with an angry spyt 
The hills will stagger down the mountain’s rind.

Our mittened hands upon the snow-capped stone,
we stood and watched what once was river zag
a black and crazy trickle through the ice.

We walked on it, in the very flesh
No different only colder, as was
The sea itself. It was simple as that.

Held in the light a story is subdued.
Arranging words in chunks and men in clusters
Prevents the passions from enslaving reason.