X. The British Attack on the Arctic
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint
This perfection, this absence.
Away from their profundity of surface.
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
A pallid yellow lingers
Seized from creation by nonentity,
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
Between the high and the low, in this night.
So, startled, quivering,
to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.
Dim, and die tonight?
Figures of light and dark, these two are walking
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint
This perfection, this absence.
Away from their profundity of surface.
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
A pallid yellow lingers
Seized from creation by nonentity,
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
Between the high and the low, in this night.
So, startled, quivering,
to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.
Dim, and die tonight?
Figures of light and dark, these two are walking
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
