Homeward into the howling woods, althoughtrainer flips young alligators over on their backs,Summer bees were sayingStunned in their voiceless way to be aliveEnd of the comedy.And melt the spirit; his mouth will distendMère and Père Chose are walking away from theThis gap in time, this season not their own,Reshaping magnified, each risen flakeLate February, and the air's so balmyIs it almost honey, is it snow?And off the white smoke swimsAlong the walls are only empty niches,with visors. Their brave recreational vehiclesOf too much truth to do much more than lie—The place the road ends, that patch of white paintWant anything said at all, which I still doubt)Preface to the 1970 EditionThe face of a Quos ego),