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Against this sky no longer of our world.
IV. The Paths to Cathay
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
Away, my songs, must we go
At these masses the snow hides from me.
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
That square—Oh, 56 x 56
Blurring the terrain,
Silent patch of ultimate paint. You are
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
With a hand freed from weight,
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
A kind of snow, which hesitates
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
Preface to the 1970 Edition
Homeward into the howling woods, although