Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snow
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
That only you and I can know. Les deux
Choces, M?e and P?e, undreaming even of fields
At the white place of the road's vanishing
Not daring to oppose
for a few weeks, statistics won't seem
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
XIII. The Route to the North
My keyhole blows a gale
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
Still has to be intoned, as in a lonely
M?e and P?e Chose are walking away from the
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea
Writhing their stunted limbs,
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
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