My keyhole blows a gale

Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
But when, on the timepieces that we call
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
The paths of childhood.
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Against this sky no longer of our world.
Dismal, endless plain—
Is the moon to grow
Blurring the terrain,
XV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely Expedition
My keyhole blows a gale

[recent spam harvest reinvented as random poetry]

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