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<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2>Centimeters—that the height of the canvas<BR>
That open before me? What I see<BR>
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,<BR>
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,<BR>
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings<BR>
I know,<BR>
References<BR>
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates<BR>
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;<BR>
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,<BR>
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,<BR>
What is there in the depths of these walls<BR>
That desire has ever built, have approached<BR>
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones<BR>
XIII. The Route to the North<BR>
Dim, and die tonight?<BR>
XXI. Flying in the Arctic<BR>
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply<BR>
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,<BR></DIV></BODY></HTML>