XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest PassagesSnow haze gleams like sand.Archangel Winter, darkness on his backThe pain of being born into matter.To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and PèrePère and Mère Chose could be in conversationWrithing their stunted limbs,That neither the motionless farm couple trudgingReshaping magnified, each risen flakeIn a single floral stroke,Place of absorbing snow, itself to beIn the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,At San Biagio, in the most intense roomThe high whites spread over the buried earth.shortcake, waffles, berries and creamthere's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,Place of absorbing snow, itself to beĀThe place the road ends, that patch of white paint
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