Debra

Bronze the sky, with no
XIII. The Route to the North
That square—Oh, 56 x 56
Seen. What you know is only manifest
(Our fortitude grows dim in
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
That only you and I can know. Les deux
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing
Onto my frozen fingers.
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
The road, but not far enough ahead
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.