Josie

Centimeters—that the height of the canvas
The edge of that other square cut from the right
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
Astonished that you have returned to go
V. The Dutch in the Arctic
Of too much truth to do much more than lie
Covering the land—
Onto my frozen fingers.
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
Like theirs ends? From what distant point of vision
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
Of meaning like these—the world created by
And off the white smoke swims
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
Is the moon to grow