Reshaping magnified, each risen flake XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort SeaThe paths of childhood. Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massedand turn it into something cartoon-funny. The form sought for centuries byBy the design of our own silent eyes Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arcIn white, in paint too representative Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet paintedThis perfection, this absence. Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snowsnoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes, End of the comedy.References Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question Across the heavens' gray.shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
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