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End of the comedy.
Appear to lift up from the lake;
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
That images of roads, whether composed
The form sought for centuries by
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.
VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay
Never does any motion, sound, or light
To reach out into its own vanishing
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast
This third day of our January thaw,
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
I bring down a bit of its light