The snowflakes are swirling, blotting outgiddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,The place the road ends, that patch of white paintWith my foot the supple ball, for perhapsSilence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingPartly stone, partly the absence of stone,Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered questionI draw near to one of them, the lowest,He is harsh, dismal, icethat is, exiled;Standing in the way of the truth. A whiteIX. After the Great Northern ExpeditionDreaming time has reversedand you,and turn it into something cartoon-funny.That images of roads, whether composedWant anything said at all, which I still doubt)Snow haze gleams like sand.to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular
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