And piled up at the base of the columns
Of too much truth to do much more than lie
My only thought is for what has
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
Rain. We are forced to fly,
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
Rain. We are forced to fly,
Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Is the moon to grow
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
Astonished that you have returned to go
Seen. What you know is only manifest
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
As it sits there like an eventual
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached