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Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
The paths of childhood.
Winds blow sharp, what then?
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
From point to point of meaning?open? closed??
Lucky the bell?still full and deep of throat,
And piled up at the base of the columns
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
As if your human shape were what the storm
Of meaning like these?the world created by
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,
From there. Toward . . .
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
But when, on the timepieces that we call
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