Subject: Penelope

From: "den margarete" <[email-masked]>
Date: Thu, 26 Apr 2007 03:08:41 +0200

They move against, or through, or by, or toward.
People might see to be the opening
XIII. The Route to the North
-The place the road ends, that patch of white paint
Everywhere, utterly.
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
Snow haze gleams like sand.
and the numbed yards will go back undercover.
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
Preface to the 1948 Edition
Blurring the terrain,
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
A pallid yellow lingers
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
With a hand freed from weight,