Michele

[sigrid lynett]

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And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
A salamander scuttles across the quiet
Yes. You'd want that said, (if you
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
To pick up even the quickening of wind
Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent—
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort

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