windows come creeping through the cold
blue sky in their headlamps
the countryside concedes its frozen searchlight
the sleepers cannot thaw
and go on, O cry, O cry, and make these
laurels of ice for a lonely hovering eye
I count the dawns like minutes
and suppress the stars in a wheel
which I say rolls on in the deep
the laurel of ice is gleaming
and nice
Ptolemy, the charcoal, knew pillows.
a rose now floats frozen in the forgotten abyss
angels hiss it blindly away
in time small hands will ocean the space
moon reflected on face
what aimless fathoms descend its name
bright clean empty
the same
a rose colored serpent sheds petals
not skins
it is the name
of the ice laurel
windows come creeping
