pines (west, out of view) and
a nuanced (believe me) color this weighted gamut so brutalizes
we’re reduced to something about the Romans and
(less yet) a middle term —
camps maybe, exercises, alarums and

cool shade, the cool light these
longer shadows cross.

just echoes.

pines and gloaming cold, o weathered snow,
the death of a poet, do marshal here
your several trajects.
 

6 jan 98