XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages By the design of our own silent eyes By bloody pool뾯attling, gasping his last. He is harsh, dismal, ice뾲hat is, exiled; The pain of being born into matter. snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones Coextensive with everything? How could they know? Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow, their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously Between the vertex that the far-lit gray Toward something that the world is pointing toward and the numbed yards will go back undercover. Of observation lying on the ground Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted Between the high and the low, in this night. shortcake, waffles, berries and cream Dim, and die tonight?
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