Parading

This morning’s garden filled with snow

While seraphim burn

a beaked mask, a braided mask, here’s a mask

It mandates while we wake or sleep, and asks

Of some enchanted land we know not where,

the true nature of poetry. The drive

the late sun

no ledge to climb up to—like a swimmer

the pantings the frenzies towards succour towards love

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths