Clifton

Summer bees were saying
This gap in time, this season not their own,
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
From point to point of meaning�open? closed?�
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
XI. Franklin's Last Voyage
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
Life, or only joy, that stands out
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Snow haze gleams like sand.
Standing in the way of the truth. A white
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing
II. List of Franklin Search Parties
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,