Thursday, February 16, 2012


The O of a frost is not the center;
It is not where, if intruded upon,

The enclosive enemy would wish
To enter.

It is the oceanic constellation beyond
The cold Earthly wood,
--a piece of you would just as soon swim as watch,

Idealized by the inward traveling goer,
Branching out in oath and walk,

And decidedly through the shaded way
Of could.

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