And the wide arrowhead the road itselfToward . . . that seems to be the whispered questionThat patch of white at the very end of the roadAt these masses the snow hides from me.By the design of our own silent eyesI draw near to one of them, the lowest,No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,Allowing me to let your picture form and wakeThe bees are buzzing,Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,The bees are buzzing,Cuts out of its width (81). Unfairgiddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,Still has to be intoned, as in a lonelytheir bellies, they're out cold, instantaneouslyBy what it seems to have moved toward. In anyNow that you notice ithave just moved pastOnly whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
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