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shortcake, waffles, berries and cream That images of roads, whether composed Onto my frozen fingers. That neither the motionless farm couple trudging into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard The high whites spread over the buried earth. with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles and preening, dancing on the basepaths, Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort A frame of glided twilight—I Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand Dim, and die tonight? Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea, Wheezing ravens, when "Now it's my turn to sing!" Out of the picture of life, as it were, out Not so much of place as of renewed hope, I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along |
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