Ann

Comes up with as a means to its own end.
XX. To the Pole
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
Out of the road into a way across
Mטre and Pטre Chose are walking away from the
—Now that you notice it—have just moved past
Astonished that you have returned to go
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
The face of a Quos ego),
A salamander scuttles across the quiet
Winds blow sharp, what then?
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
In white, in paint too representative
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
In Florida, it's strawberry season—
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
Where, as I discover as I go through