Molly

Unreadable from behind�they are well down
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Winds blow sharp, what then?
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
Of meaning like these�the world created by
Empty streets I come upon by chance,
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
The line between the outside and this room
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Centimeters�that the height of the canvas
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
Escapees from the cold work of living,
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
V. The Dutch in the Arctic