Centimeters�that the height of the canvas
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
Everywhere, utterly.
Across the heavens' gray.
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
Are muffled into silence that refuses
By the design of our own silent eyes
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
XI. Franklin's Last Voyage
My keyhole blows a gale
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
Everywhere, utterly.
Across the heavens' gray.
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
Are muffled into silence that refuses
By the design of our own silent eyes
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
XI. Franklin's Last Voyage
My keyhole blows a gale
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