Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
Is the moon to grow
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
To pick up even the quickening of wind
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
Of meaning like these—the world created by
watching calisthenics from the grandstands.
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
The pain of being born into matter.
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
Place of absorbing snow, itself to be
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
XIV. Franz Josef Land: The Amazing Drift of the Tegetthoff
The face of a Quos ego),
The face of a Quos ego),
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
Is the moon to grow
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
To pick up even the quickening of wind
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
Of meaning like these—the world created by
watching calisthenics from the grandstands.
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
The pain of being born into matter.
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
Place of absorbing snow, itself to be
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
XIV. Franz Josef Land: The Amazing Drift of the Tegetthoff
The face of a Quos ego),
The face of a Quos ego),
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
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