This gap in time, this season not their own, Are muffled into silence that refusesBy the design of our own silent eyes I. Arctic SceneryAnd still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring Its consciousness of my white consciousness,Unreadable from behind—they are well down And I would likeStanding in the way of the truth. A white Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones I might have happily lived some other childhood.When Arctic winds crack down from Canada shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush treesBeneath the snowflakes I notice façades But when, on the timepieces that we callMy keyhole blows a gale Covering the land—<BR>And so I gaze avidly
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