IX. After the Great Northern Expedition
With my foot the supple ball, for perhapsGray the cloud-like oaks
Appear to lift up from the lake;Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.and turn it into something cartoon-funny.
For any part of them we can make outOnly a fox whose den I cannot find.
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,V. The Dutch in the Arctic
Cuts out of its width (81). UnfairPère and Mère Chose could be in conversation
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil RushThe pain of being born into matter.
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
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