[Mozfbrh] Myron

[kat rosamond]

Across the heavens' gray.
Billows the fog, cloaks
My keyhole blows a gale
He is harsh, dismal, ice-that is, exiled;
At the white place of the road's vanishing
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
Again awaken from your being gone to find
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
When I am heard, and what I say is solely
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
Is the moon to grow
And off the white smoke swims
In white, in paint too representative
Late February, and the air's so balmy
Standing in the way of the truth. A white
Away from their profundity of surface.
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc

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