The season’s Braille describes a most elusive prose.
I glean the scant regard the hours disclose,
manifest in the measure that it is latent.
To whose pleasure, then, have I grown so impatient?
You and I have wintered much confusion;
Summer’s loss was assessed, its epitaphs chosen,
hewn in the crystal mesh of an old allusion –
a sun-recollected fiction, frozen
in a glittering and jewel-laden palimpsest.
For we are the scripture of a wrought manifold:
latent legibles, once more manifest
by an orb which frees us from this ice-parloured cold,
as the camera pulls back on our winter city
where the immigrant was duly pitied
and no one tried the nobility of the Moor.
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