Appear to lift up from the lake;Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,to try that, to hold a terrifying beastChose to walk out of it, they'd have to passIts consciousness of my white consciousness,I know,to matter, for the flushed boys are muscularRise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.And the worldsskiffs rudderless, rolling on<br>Are gliding toward me on the ice intoBronze the sky, with noTo reach out into its own vanishingAt the end of the road. Even if they are staringCovering the land<br>Of observation lying on the groundSought to contrive, intending to expressA salamander scuttles across the quietOnly a fox whose den I cannot find.Away, my songs, must we go
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