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[Norris Kline]

the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoon
The ordinary, wide scene which beginsBeyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
And the wide arrowhead the road itselfOf too much truth to do much more than lie
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
Down the long course of the gray slush of thingsA matter of getting all that right . . .
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
And up there I cannot tell if it is stillSilence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
To reach out into its own vanishingYes. You'd want that said, (if you
Seized from creation by nonentity,then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.
Of observation lying on the groundAs it sits there like an eventual
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