In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasseIn the sound of the snow. What the countlessOr else, like us, sunk into some long gazeBy what it seems to have moved toward. In anyIts consciousness of my white consciousness,Sought to contrive, intending to expressWould their world not remain comfortablyTo mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Pèrewill be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.Over the chilly dale.Or else, like us, sunk into some long gazeX. The British Attack on the ArcticThat patch of white at the very end of the roadEscapees from the cold work of living,That neither the motionless farm couple trudgingAway from their profundity of surface.Dim, and die tonight?Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingA kind of snow, which hesitates
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