Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
From there. Toward . . .
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
A kind of snow, which hesitates
XI. Franklin's Last Voyage
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
Summer bees were saying
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
Never does any motion, sound, or light
XX. To the Pole
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
snoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,
Covering the land—
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
A pallid yellow lingers
Of too much truth to do much more than lie
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc