The high whites spread over the buried earth.
Billows the fog, cloaks
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
IV. The Paths to Cathay
XVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the Fram
Out of the road into a way across
Glimmering of light:
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
The bees are buzzing,
At the white place of the road's vanishing
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
In white, in paint too representative
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
How can they get the point of how a world
Everywhere, utterly.
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
Billows the fog, cloaks
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
IV. The Paths to Cathay
XVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the Fram
Out of the road into a way across
Glimmering of light:
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
The bees are buzzing,
At the white place of the road's vanishing
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
In white, in paint too representative
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
How can they get the point of how a world
Everywhere, utterly.
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
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