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the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoon
The line between the outside and this room
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Away from their profundity of surface.
The surge of swirling wind defines
XVII. Greenland
Seized from creation by nonentity,
Rain. We are forced to fly,
Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snow
watching calisthenics from the grandstands.
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
Away from their profundity of surface.
In a single floral stroke,
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Given by nature will soak into it.
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