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<DIV>to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular<br>Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort<br>The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out<br>Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,<br>Figures of light and dark, these two are walking<br>Place of absorbing snow, itself to be<br>And piled up at the base of the columns<br>Thinking of your abiding spirit brings<br>To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père<br>marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached<br>That this mud draws on the stone.<br>In white, in paint too representative<br>In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous<br>And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,<br>XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea<br>Of meaning like these—the world created by<br>As if your human shape were what the storm<br>The surge of swirling wind defines<br>Point, after all, when finally one reaches<br></DIV>
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