Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
To have been claimed by what we see of what
Oh you builders,
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson
My keyhole blows a gale
VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition
Along the walls are only empty niches,
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
Blurring the terrain,
The edge of that other square cut from the right
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
Oh you builders,
Dismal, endless plain—
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
To have been claimed by what we see of what
Oh you builders,
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson
My keyhole blows a gale
VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition
Along the walls are only empty niches,
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
Blurring the terrain,
The edge of that other square cut from the right
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
Oh you builders,
Dismal, endless plain—