Thursday, September 27, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
IX. After the Great Northern Expedition
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
As if your human shape were what the storm
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
A frame of glided twilight
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day.
XXI. Flying in the Arctic
This perfection, this absence.
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
Cuts out of its width
I seek, above all, in the wandering
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
The place the road
ends, that patch of white paint
III. Earliest Recorded Northern Explorers
The Greeks and the Vikings
That only you and I can know.