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And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.
This perfection, this absence.
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the
To follow in the path of their brief blossoming
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
And piled up at the base of the columns
X. The British Attack on the Arctic
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
So you can watch me watch uplifted snow
From there. Toward . . .
To pick up even the quickening of wind
I. Further Exploration of Spitsbergen