XX. To the Pole
XVII. Greenland
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
XXI. Flying in the Arctic
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
By what it seems to have moved toward. In any
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
Of observation lying on the ground
He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;
to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.
This third day of our January thaw,