there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
XI. Franklin's Last Voyage
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
Where, as I discover as I go through
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
Everywhere, utterly.
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
So you can watch me watch uplifted snow
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;