Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to passFrom there. Toward . . .Of Boyg of Normandy . . .In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretchingA kind of snow, which hesitatesXI. Franklin's Last VoyageHis sightless eyes horribly watch the air;Summer bees were sayingTo watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.Never does any motion, sound, or lightXX. To the PoleShe stretches a hand toward the toothy sleepersnoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,Covering the land—Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,A pallid yellow lingersOf too much truth to do much more than lieBeneath a pile of corpses, lying massedAbsurdly, my eyes can only see the arc