there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arcDreaming time has reversed—and you,XI. Franklin's Last VoyageAs if your absence now concluded long ago.Where, as I discover as I go throughOnly a fox whose den I cannot find.Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,Through the back of the picture at the patch of whiteWith my foot the supple ball, for perhapsdemonstrating their talent for comedy—strokeEverywhere, utterly.High on this surface, guarding the edge of PèreSo you can watch me watch uplifted snowPère and Mère Chose could be in conversationAnd all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,Or else, like us, sunk into some long gazeSilence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;