Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman Is the moon to grow At San Biagio, in the most intense room By bloody poolė¾Æattling, gasping his last. And up there I cannot tell if it is still They move against, or through, or by, or toward. Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass, Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted Winds blow sharp, what then? And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring I. Further Exploration of Spitsbergen Bronze the sky, with no Swaying in unison beneath the snow, Through the back of the picture at the patch of white Merely a mockery of spring Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay, Gray the cloud-like oaks Dismal, endless plain?BR> The high whites spread over the buried earth.
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