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They move against, or through, or by, or toward.
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
Astonished that you have returned to go
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
XI. Franklin's Last Voyage
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
He is harsh, dismal, iceĀthat is, exiled;
Not daring to oppose
Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fields
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
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