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So, startled, quivering,
(Our fortitude grows dim in
Seized from creation by nonentity,
Dismal, endless plain—
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they
Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the
When Arctic winds crack down from Canada
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
Would their world not remain comfortably
Writhing their stunted limbs,
Between the high and the low, in this night.
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
Glimmering of light:
Late February, and the air's so balmy
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
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