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That square—Oh, 56 x 56
Summer bees were sayinggiddy as good kids playing hookey. Now, for a few weeks, statistics won't seem—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint As it sits there like an eventualThis third day of our January thaw, Unreadable from behind—they are well downFor any part of them we can make out Dismal, endless plain—Astonished that you have returned to go And up there I cannot tell if it is stillTraces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon Not so much of place as of renewed hope,In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse Down the long course of the gray slush of thingsand the numbed yards will go back undercover. Out of the road into a way acrossCovering the land—