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Dismal, endless plain�
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
By bloody pool�rattling, gasping his last.
Everywhere, utterly.
The paths of childhood.
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
From there. Toward . . .
�Now that you notice it�have just moved past
I. Further Exploration of Spitsbergen
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
The purest form is always the one
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
The edge of that other square cut from the right
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough