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That square—Oh, 56 x 56XX. To the PoleStanding in the way of the truth. A whiteI might have happily lived some other childhood.Everywhere, utterly.As if your human shape were what the stormIn the woods, close by,II. List of Franklin Search PartiesThe flakes which have stolen onto the flagstoneson their own little seat cushions, wearing soft capsBrush the lone giant in that somber pall.the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the BabeIn white, in paint too representativeWant anything said at all, which I still doubt)The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstonesDismal, endless plain—
The bees are buzzing,The road, but not far enough aheadI've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
That square—Oh, 56 x 56
XX. To the Pole
Standing in the way of the truth. A white
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
Everywhere, utterly.
As if your human shape were what the storm
In the woods, close by,
II. List of Franklin Search Parties
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
In white, in paint too representative
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
Dismal, endless plain—
The bees are buzzing,
The road, but not far enough ahead
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
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