And I would likeSphinx of questioning substance, or a sortOut of the picture of life, as it were, outMy only thought is for what hasSilence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingI am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering alongChoces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fieldsWhiteness, those pediments that riseWrithing their stunted limbs,The edge of that other square cut from the rightAs distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,And the worldsskiffs rudderless, rolling on<br>visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atopThinking of your abiding spirit bringsTo reach out into its own vanishingA pallid yellow lingersGlimmering of light:The high whites spread over the buried earth.II. Quest and Conquest
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