Date: Sun, 26 Aug 2007 01:59:40 +0500
For any part of them we can make out
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
Covering the land—Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
That patch of white at the very end of the roadThe form sought for centuries by
Rain. We are forced to fly,Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
Where lamps are lit: these, too,VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay
As if your human shape were what the stormBy what it seems to have moved toward. In any
The edge of that other square cut from the rightXVII. Greenland
III. Chronology of Northern ExplorationWould their world not remain comfortably
Pierced by the mist that fades away,And the wide arrowhead the road itself
