Gouache is doubling winter, lining kilims in the wet.
Bothwise, smarting as the very main road,
if the suburbs were she. If Perne and Radegund were night
and night in turn the garrison of its own hour.
The leavening was all the calm we slept, garten, feld.
Slooping in brilliances
that is wintry, heartly and at once chipped, chip.
Our frame was curriculum and Albion, the earth is fingertip and frosts yet,
the outborne stilt that came grumpy and wet
ourselves its own frame, it was winter
and it was small.
Through the city, framed by roads
a careful rubbing of memory
if the nighttime yet was calm.