Sanford

Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
This perfection, this absence.
—Now that you notice it—have just moved past
and preening, dancing on the basepaths,
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
Bronze the sky, with no
Oh you builders,
Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
Never does any motion, sound, or light
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
III. Chronology of Northern Exploration
Dim, and die tonight?
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.