And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—<BR>
At the white place of the road's vanishingThe weight of being born into exile is lifted.
From there. Toward . . .And piled up at the base of the columns
Figures of light and dark, these two are walkingAnd the wide arrowhead the road itself
(Our fortitude grows dim inReshaping magnified, each risen flake
More beautiful than anything in this world.Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
This perfection, this absence.X. The British Attack on the Arctic
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeperTo follow in the path of their brief blossoming
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoon
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.I seek, above all, in the wandering
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