And the worldsskiffs rudderless, rolling onDismal, endless plainThe place the road ends, that patch of white paintIn Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretchingStars, the last day, endless and centerless,Toward something that the world is pointing towardgrow hot in the parking lot, though they'reBefore those virile women!Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,Pierced by the mist that fades away,As it sits there like an eventualThe form sought for centuries byXV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely ExpeditionThat patch of white at the very end of the roadMy soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,In Florida, it's strawberry seasonPoint, after all, when finally one reachesToward something that the world is pointing towardHow bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
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