She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper.
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
Wind, sleet. The branches sway.
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze.
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations.
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,
The bees are buzzing,
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape.
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea.
In the sound of the snow. How countless.
Of meanings like these, the world created.
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend.
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply,
The motionless farm couple trudging.
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