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 Posted: Fri Feb 09, 2007 6:57 am |
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[img]cid:006901c74c17$31c8caf0$6c822ecf@a8da867[/img]
Like theirs ends? From what distant point of vision
Silent patch of ultimate paint. You are
Floating on the sky.
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
The purest form is always the one
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
I bring down a bit of its light
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
So you can watch me watch uplifted snow
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
And I would like
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
Place of absorbing snow, itself to be
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
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