Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
My keyhole blows a gale
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
demonstrating their talent for comedystroke
Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson
More beautiful than anything in this world.
Covering the land
Away, my songs, must we go
The line between the outside and this room
Astonished that you have returned to go
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
demonstrating their talent for comedystroke
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
In white, in paint too representative
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
My keyhole blows a gale
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
demonstrating their talent for comedystroke
Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson
More beautiful than anything in this world.
Covering the land
Away, my songs, must we go
The line between the outside and this room
Astonished that you have returned to go
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
demonstrating their talent for comedystroke
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
In white, in paint too representative
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,