Berkeley Innovation

Dim, and die tonight?
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
Is the moon to grow
Billows the fog, cloaks
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
The paths of childhood.
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
XIII. The Route to the North
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
The road, but not far enough ahead
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,