Adobe Suite 3

How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
Wheezing ravens, when
XV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely Expedition
—Now that you notice it—have just moved past
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
Appear to lift up from the lake;
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
As it sits there like an eventual
A frame of glided twilight—I
And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they
In Florida, it's strawberry season—
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
As if your human shape were what the storm