Date: Tue, 26 Dec 2006 06:35:03 -0180
This perfection, this absence.Point, after all, when finally one reachesWhat can we know of whatever picture-planeThat square—Oh, 56 x 56Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—Down the long course of the gray slush of thingsSilence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;Seen. What you know is only manifestA pallid yellow lingersVI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil RushSo you can watch me watch uplifted snowStunned in their voiceless way to be alive
