Appendices
Homeward into the howling woods, although
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
Blurring the terrain,
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
Yes. The obvious
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
I know,
Rain. We are forced to fly,
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
By the design of our own silent eyes
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
Floating on the sky.
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,