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<DIV align=left><FONT face=Arial size=2>Comes up with as a means to its own end.<BR>
As it sits there like an eventual<BR>At the white place of the road's vanishing<BR>
Appendices<BR>Onto my frozen fingers.<BR>
I. Further Exploration of Spitsbergen<BR>In the sound of the snow. What the countless<BR>
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped<BR>He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;<BR>
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking<BR>Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing<BR>
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.<BR>They tear apart the mist, it is as though,<BR>
This drizzling three-day January thaw,<BR>watching calisthenics from the grandstands.<BR>
My keyhole blows a gale<BR>Covering the land—<BR>
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;<BR>The form sought for centuries by<BR></FONT></DIV>
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