Empty streets I come upon by chance,It's snowing, it's returning to a townBy the design of our own silent eyesOf the matter of snow here. Both of us have graspedSilence, are in his handbirds in a snare;Now that you notice ithave just moved pastCascading snowflakes settle in the pines,XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin SearchOh, I know. The snow. The effective snowIt's snowing, it's returning to a townNever does any motion, sound, or lightXII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin SearchAnd still my mind goes groping in the mud to bringXVII. GreenlandAs if your human shape were what the stormFor any part of them we can make outThe line between the outside and this roomTo watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
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