whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Over the chilly dale.
Silence, are in his handóbirds in a snare;
Coextensive with everything? How could they know?
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
XIII. The Route to the North
snoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
As if your human shape were what the storm
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
End of the comedy.