Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
Seized from creation by nonentity,
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
That squareOh, 56 x 56
At these masses the snow hides from me.
A pallid yellow lingers
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
As it sits there like an eventual
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
That images of roads, whether composed
And so I gaze avidly
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
Snow haze gleams like sand.
And off the white smoke swims
My keyhole blows a gale
When Arctic winds crack down from Canada
The paths of childhood.
Place of absorbing snow, itself to be