oem version

This gap in time, this season not their own,
Between the high and the low, in this night.
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
How can they get the point of how a world
The edge of that other square cut from the right
visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop
As if your human shape were what the storm
Snow haze gleams like sand.
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
The surge of swirling wind defines
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
Dismal, endless plain—
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
Bronze the sky, with no
Of observation lying on the ground