[Mhln] Roderick 


I bring down a bit of its light
Along the walls are only empty niches,
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
XIII. The Route to the North
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;
Out of the road into a way across
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
So, startled, quivering,
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place

