Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
—Now that you notice it—have just moved past
Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snow
By what it seems to have moved toward. In any
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
I. Further Exploration of Spitsbergen
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
Beneath the snowflakes I notice façades
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Wheezing ravens, when
And beyond, the same sound of bees
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
Blurring the terrain,
IX. After the Great Northern Expedition
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
With a hand freed from weight,
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
To reach out into its own vanishing
—Now that you notice it—have just moved past
Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snow
By what it seems to have moved toward. In any
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
I. Further Exploration of Spitsbergen
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
Beneath the snowflakes I notice façades
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Wheezing ravens, when
And beyond, the same sound of bees
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
Blurring the terrain,
IX. After the Great Northern Expedition
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
With a hand freed from weight,
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
To reach out into its own vanishing
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