Of too much truth to do much more than liethe foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoonSnaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.The winter road from the St. Simeon farmAnd piled up at the base of the columnsThe snowflakes are swirling, blotting outDim, and die tonight?Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snowXVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the Framto matter, for the flushed boys are muscularBeneath a pile of corpses, lying massedCascading snowflakes settle in the pines,XVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the FramAs if your human shape were what the stormEscapees from the cold work of living,And so I gaze avidlyXI. Franklin's Last VoyageOr else, like us, sunk into some long gazeThat patch of white at the very end of the road
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