We had thirteen ways to look,
Just one more than clock-face

Involved with  blackbird’s eye
On a snowy whiteness of hills.

We are moving in dark circles
And coming back to our God.

We have dark circles of sleep.
Our eyes crinkle on blackbird.

We will not cross the coconut
Where a water drips on stone.

Our stone is a black bird’s eye
On the vast snows of the hills.

Some times , God is icy stone
We arrive as bird only to die.

Thirteen may not be unlucky.
What can we do after twelve?

Our black bird is just an eye
On vast whites of our snows.

( Reading Wallace Stevens poem Thirteen Ways of Looking At a Blackbird)