shortcake, waffles, berries and creamAt San Biagio, in the most intense roomAs if your absence now concluded long ago.Merely a mockery of springwatching calisthenics from the grandstands.Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesceWide, whited fields, a way unframed at lastVI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil RushStunned in their voiceless way to be aliveYes. You'd want that said, (if youPère and Mère Chose could be in conversationA matter of getting all that right . . .Empty streets I come upon by chance,At these masses the snow hides from me.By the design of our own silent eyesBy bloody poolrattling, gasping his last.with visors. Their brave recreational vehiclesToward . . . that seems to be the whispered questionI bring down a bit of its light
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