And piled up at the base of the columns
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
The pain of being born into matter.
And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they
Place of absorbing snow, itself to be
Where, as I discover as I go through
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
for a few weeks, statistics won't seem
Onto my frozen fingers.
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
Dim, and die tonight?
For any part of them we can make out
Life, or only joy, that stands out
Snow haze gleams like sand.
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
Is the moon to grow
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
The pain of being born into matter.
And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they
Place of absorbing snow, itself to be
Where, as I discover as I go through
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
for a few weeks, statistics won't seem
Onto my frozen fingers.
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
Dim, and die tonight?
For any part of them we can make out
Life, or only joy, that stands out
Snow haze gleams like sand.
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
Is the moon to grow