Date: Wed, 27 Jun 2007 02:18:20 -0100
(Our fortitude grows dim in
Dismal, endless plain—Bronze the sky, with no
That neither the motionless farm couple trudgingCuts out of its width (81). Unfair
A salamander scuttles across the quietXI. Franklin's Last Voyage
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly uponAnd I would like
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sortFor any part of them we can make out
Toward something that the world is pointing towardwill be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
Appear to lift up from the lake;Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicleswill come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
V. The Dutch in the ArcticToward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
