Josefa

Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
The pain of being born into matter.
Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent�
And I would like
A pallid yellow lingers
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
When I am heard, and what I say is solely
Over the chilly dale.
Allowing me to let your picture form and wake
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
Centimeters�that the height of the canvas
High on this surface, guarding the edge of P�re
XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question