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Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
That neither the motionless farm couple trudgingdemonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massedEnd of the comedy.
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.Against this sky no longer of our world.
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
Archangel Winter, darkness on his backAnd trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
Close at the end of distance the two Chosewhose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
End of the comedy.So you can watch me watch uplifted snow
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,Toward something that the world is pointing toward








Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
End of the comedy.
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
Against this sky no longer of our world.
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
End of the comedy.
So you can watch me watch uplifted snow
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
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