Thinking of your abiding spirit bringsgrow hot in the parking lot, though they'reI draw near to one of them, the lowest,By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.As if your absence now concluded long ago.giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,Onto my frozen fingers.Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massedGreen lilac buds appear that won't surviveGreen lilac buds appear that won't surviveDown the long course of the gray slush of thingsSought to contrive, intending to expressHow can they get the point of how a worldEvent, the end of the painted road ends upSilence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingAs if your human shape were what the stormTwo of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who standOut of the picture of life, as it were, outX. The British Attack on the Arctic