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Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
I seek, above all, in the wandering
Writhing their stunted limbs,
Right, and appears from here to be overcome
I seek, above all, in the wandering
XX. To the Pole
End of the comedy.
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
XVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the Fram
Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
My only thought is for what has
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
Seized from creation by nonentity,