Dismal, endless plain—
Is the moon to grow
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the
The face of a Quos ego),
Are muffled into silence that refuses
and turn it into something cartoon-funny.
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent—
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
This gap in time, this season not their own,
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
They move against, or through, or by, or toward.
And I would like
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
As if your human shape were what the storm
Is the moon to grow
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the
The face of a Quos ego),
Are muffled into silence that refuses
and turn it into something cartoon-funny.
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent—
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
This gap in time, this season not their own,
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
They move against, or through, or by, or toward.
And I would like
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
As if your human shape were what the storm
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