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<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2>Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,<br>
So you can watch me watch uplifted snow<br>
Is the moon to grow<br>
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,<br>
Toward something that the world is pointing toward<br>
The purest form is always the one<br>
In a single floral stroke,<br>
Out of the picture of life, as it were, out<br>
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon<br>
Against this sky no longer of our world.<br>
Onto my frozen fingers.<br>
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,<br>
III. Chronology of Northern Exploration<br>
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.<br>
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe<br>
Seized from creation by nonentity,<br>
Dim, and die tonight?<br>
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along<br>
By trees—or might see as the masonry<br></DIV></BODY></HTML>