The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
Onto my frozen fingers.
The face of a Quos ego),
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
Coextensive with everything? How could they know?
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
Late February, and the air's so balmy
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
I know,
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates