CREATIVE SUITE 3

Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
That this mud draws on the stone.
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
From there. Toward . . .
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
Is the moon to grow
Standing in the way of the truth. A white
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
A pallid yellow lingers
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted