Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
They move against, or through, or by, or toward.
From which, thanks to symmetry,
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
The mortal architect had brought to life,
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
That open before me? What I see
Merely a mockery of spring
Snow haze gleams like sand.
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
Point, after all, when finally one reaches