Winter spears
its buds of snow
till a little white rose
bleeds gold and trembles.
It's the same color
I see all over the world—
just purely visible.
•
A whitever
snows on green benches.
Most of each thing
is whole but contingent.
Only a sulfurous halo
burns up
the blanks like religion.
•
Did you make your way
or find it then
up the steps to heaven?
Always guessing
nothing but the questions?
Unknowingness as even
as the gold on everything?