Craven cravings for craftiness and light

cracked the window on a sol-filled tarde,
and the snow subsided, from left to right,
leaning like Texas speed towards the swarthy
Dominican priest-pitcher, heaving feet,
metrical patterns that slide out of sight
with spit on the seams and chalk on the street
marking the point where free base is all white:
Save, blow, or fair, foul – the roads are narrow;
like Caminiti, this pilgrim is lost
on medieval trails, true urban marrow
whence cities sprang from dark cunning now lost:
There are no kennings which evoke the pain
of the high-road to Heaven's ankle sprain.
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