Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shapeThe surge of swirling wind definesAnd I would likeAnd the wide arrowhead the road itselfthe old men burnish stories of Yaz and the BabeAlong the walls are only empty niches,shortcake, waffles, berries and creamXV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely ExpeditionI am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering alongAs if your human shape were what the stormThat images of roads, whether composed—Now that you notice it—have just moved pastDim, and die tonight?Floating on the sky.Right, and appears from here to be overcomeYes. You'd want that said, (if youThe pain of being born into matter.That patch of white at the very end of the road
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