Justine

He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;
I do not betray you, I still go forward,
My only thought is for what has
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
Wheezing ravens, when
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
Everywhere, utterly.
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
From there. Toward . . .
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
Is the moon to grow
Blurring the terrain,
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
Is it almost honey, is it snow?