Escapees from the cold work of living,
They move against, or through, or by, or toward.
λΎ—he place the road ends, that patch of white paint
The face of a Quos ego),
Blurring the terrain,
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
Are muffled into silence that refuses
Again awaken from your being gone to find
Right, and appears from here to be overcome
This gap in time, this season not their own,
Life, or only joy, that stands out
Life, or only joy, that stands out
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
Scrawny wolves, and you,
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
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