Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
By the design of our own silent eyes
By trees—or might see as the masonry
III. Earliest Recorded Northern Explorers: The Greeks and the Vikings
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
This gap in time, this season not their own,
Seized from creation by nonentity,
The edge of that other square cut from the right
XI. Franklin's Last Voyage
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
In the woods, close by,
visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop
Away, my songs, must we go
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
XI. Franklin's Last Voyage
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
—Now that you notice it—have just moved past