Just received this:
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
Gray the cloud-like oaks
Between the high and the low, in this night.
A salamander scuttles across the quiet;
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
XVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the Fram,
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
(The face of a Quos’ ego),
Now that you notice it — have just moved past
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Astonished that you have returned to go:
Yes. You’d want that said, (if you turn
Right, and appears from here to be overcome
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .)
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Lucky the bell — still full and deep of throat,
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
In a single floral stroke.
Mind boggles. Still, it’s settled my problem – I’m going on holiday to The Boyg of Normandy next year if it’s got all this weird shit going on.
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