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—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint
X. The British Attack on the Arctic
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
Empty streets I come upon by chance,
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
The road, but not far enough ahead
And off the white smoke swims
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing
In white, in paint too representative
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
My keyhole blows a gale
The road, but not far enough ahead
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;