Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snow
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
How can they get the point of how a world
Scrawny wolves, and you,
That this mud draws on the stone.
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
XXI. Flying in the Arctic
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
Floating on the sky.
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages