their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneouslySphinx of questioning substance, or a sortgrow hot in the parking lot, though they'reIt's snowing, it's returning to a townTo watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.The pain of being born into matter.Is the moon to growThrough the back of the picture at the patch of whiteLate February, and the air's so balmyMère and Père Chose are walking away from theDreaming time has reversed—and you,VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His BayWheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet paintedAt these masses the snow hides from me.Is it almost honey, is it snow?When I am heard, and what I say is solelyThe high whites spread over the buried earth.Preface to the 1970 EditionOf tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
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