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From there. Toward . . .
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
The form sought for centuries by
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
XV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely Expedition
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snow
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
Away, my songs, must we go
watching calisthenics from the grandstands.
Still has to be intoned, as in a lonely
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
The road, but not far enough ahead
Never does any motion, sound, or light
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.

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Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Out of the picture of life, as it were, out
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
Unreadable from behind�they are well down
(Our fortitude grows dim in
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
In Florida, it's strawberry season�
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
P�re and M�re Chose could be in conversation
X. The British Attack on the Arctic
Merely a mockery of spring
And the worlds�skiffs rudderless, rolling on�
III. Earliest Recorded Northern Explorers: The Greeks and the Vikings
XI. Franklin's Last Voyage
Unreadable from behind�they are well down
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.

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In a single floral stroke,
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
That images of roads, whether composed
It's snowing, it's returning to a town
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
The face of a Quos ego),
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
The surge of swirling wind defines
By what it seems to have moved toward. In any
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
and the numbed yards will go back undercover.
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
That only you and I can know. Les deux
When Arctic winds crack down from Canada
XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea