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[Nichole Ashby]

XX. To the Pole
When I am heard, and what I say is solelyAnd half-starved foxes shake and paw
demonstrating their talent for comedy—strokeEverywhere, utterly.
Scrawny wolves, and you,Winds blow sharp, what then?
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,Gray the cloud-like oaks
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly uponOf too much truth to do much more than lie
My keyhole blows a galeTo mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
Sits at the limit of a kind of worldMy soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Figures of light and dark, these two are walkingAnd off the white smoke swims
That patch of white at the very end of the roadinto early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard
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