Kris

Late February, and the air's so balmy
That open before me? What I see
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
XX. To the Pole
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,
Never does any motion, sound, or light
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
XVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the Fram
Bronze the sky, with no
�Now that you notice it�have just moved past