Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at lastCuts out of its width (81). UnfairAstonished that you have returned to goThat open before me? What I seePeople might see to be the openingFrom there. Toward . . .Shadows keep piling up as surfacesDim, and die tonight?Covering the land—What? What can you do?Its consciousness of my white consciousness,Never does any motion, sound, or lightAstonished that you have returned to goDismal, endless plain—trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,This third day of our January thaw,A salamander scuttles across the quietOut of the picture of life, as it were, outA pallid yellow lingers
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