Where, as I discover as I go through
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
Of meaning like these—the world created by
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Writhing their stunted limbs,
I. Further Exploration of Spitsbergen
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
To pick up even the quickening of wind
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
Is the moon to grow
That only you and I can know. Les deux
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
Of meaning like these—the world created by
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Writhing their stunted limbs,
I. Further Exploration of Spitsbergen
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
To pick up even the quickening of wind
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
Is the moon to grow
That only you and I can know. Les deux
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
