Berkeley Innovation

Right, and appears from here to be overcome
A pallid yellow lingers
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
Unreadable from behind—they are well down
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
Gray the cloud-like oaks
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
Where, as I discover as I go through
That images of roads, whether composed
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
XIII. The Route to the North
This third day of our January thaw,
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Away, my songs, must we go
The line between the outside and this room