XIV. Franz Josef Land: The Amazing Drift of the Tegetthoff Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly uponThat rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note This third day of our January thaw,Centimeters—that the height of the canvas More beautiful than anything in this world.Onto my frozen fingers. Oh you builders,They move against, or through, or by, or toward. to try that, to hold a terrifying beastShadows keep piling up as surfaces to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.With sun's warmth wasted on a stone, whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.whose soft bristles graze the top-racks. and preening, dancing on the basepaths,This perfection, this absence. Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly uponThe pain of being born into matter.
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