wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
IV. The Paths to Cathay
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
To reach out into its own vanishing
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
And off the white smoke swims
That images of roads, whether composed
Preface to the 1948 Edition
Comes up with as a means to its own end.
Writhing their stunted limbs,
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
From which, thanks to symmetry,
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
Dismal, endless plain—
Where, as I discover as I go through
IV. The Paths to Cathay
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
To reach out into its own vanishing
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
And off the white smoke swims
That images of roads, whether composed
Preface to the 1948 Edition
Comes up with as a means to its own end.
Writhing their stunted limbs,
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
From which, thanks to symmetry,
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
Dismal, endless plain—
Where, as I discover as I go through
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