Clifford - 100% results.

He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
And so I gaze avidly
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
To pick up even the quickening of wind
Along the walls are only empty niches,
To a higher level of appearance.
To reach out into its own vanishing
As if your human shape were what the storm
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
Floating on the sky.
IX. After the Great Northern Expedition
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
And so I gaze avidly
Appear to lift up from the lake;
XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea
Merely a mockery of spring