Homeward into the howling woods, although
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
Summer bees were saying
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
End of the comedy.
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the
This gap in time, this season not their own,
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
Late February, and the air's so balmy
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
And off the white smoke swims
Along the walls are only empty niches,
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
Of too much truth to do much more than lie
—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
Preface to the 1970 Edition
The face of a Quos ego),