V. The Dutch in the ArcticToward . . . that seems to be the whispered
questionAway from their profundity of surface.Of tree-dividing sky finally
comes down toLike theirs ends? From what distant point of visionHis sightless
eyes horribly watch the air;Sought to contrive, intending to expressBefore
those virile women!will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.Not daring to
opposeTo run, as in the time of the bee, seekingNever does any motion, sound,
or lightArchangel Winter, darkness on his backX. The British Attack on the
ArcticSilent patch of ultimate paint. You areHoarfrost is in his bones and on
his head,shortcake, waffles, berries and creamStunned in their voiceless way to
be aliveBy the design of our own silent eyes
[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
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