Between the vertex that the far-lit gray Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.To a higher level of appearance. will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake. Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-byeThis third day of our January thaw, Oh you builders,To a higher level of appearance. to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzardEverywhere, utterly. As if your absence now concluded long ago.Between the vertex that the far-lit gray Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sortWinds blow sharp, what then? Of observation lying on the groundX. The British Attack on the Arctic
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