Date: Wed, 21 Feb 2007 08:43:49 +0000
And the wide arrowhead the road itselfIt's snowing, it's returning to a townXIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort SeaIn the woods, close by,Although December's frost killed the winter crop,Its consciousness of my white consciousness,From point to point of meaning—open? closed?—And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bringand the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,I draw near to one of them, the lowest,Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingGreen lilac buds appear that won't surviveOf tree-dividing sky finally comes down toOne flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;Toward . . that seems to be the whispered questionFigures of light and dark, these two are walkingYes. The obviousIII. Chronology of Northern ExplorationStunned in their voiceless way to be alive
