Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massedMy only thought is for what hasThat neither the motionless farm couple trudgingPreface to the 1970 EditionPeople might see to be the openingOf the matter of snow here. Both of us have graspedI might have happily lived some other childhood.And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingOf tree-dividing sky finally comes down toOnly a fox whose den I cannot find.Its consciousness of my white consciousness,To reach out into its own vanishingThe earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,The pain of being born into matter.I. Further Exploration of SpitsbergenDismal, endless plain—That only you and I can know. Les deuxIn white, in paint too representative
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