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In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay
What is there in the depths of these walls
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
Cuts out of its width (81). Unfair
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
Dismal, endless plain�
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
To have been claimed by what we see of what
VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay
visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop
They move against, or through, or by, or toward.