Sophie

—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
Onto my frozen fingers.
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
Would their world not remain comfortably
Unreadable from behind—they are well down
Floating on the sky.
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
At the white place of the road's vanishing
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
And M?e Chose's square of world, even as they