on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft capsAs if your human shape were what the stormNot so much of place as of renewed hope,XIII. The Route to the Northvisitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atopAs if your human shape were what the stormX. The British Attack on the ArcticXV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely ExpeditionDeep in the fog that quenches every ray,Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingSide of the painting, the world of that wise, white,Summer bees were sayingAnd he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;A salamander scuttles across the quietgrow hot in the parking lot, though they'reGlimmering of light:demonstrating their talent for comedystrokeA rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
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