AUTOCAT

Right, and appears from here to be overcome
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Trampled snow is the only rose.
That desire has ever built, have approached
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
That patch of white at the very end of the road
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
Not daring to oppose
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
Rain. We are forced to fly,
Everywhere, utterly.
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
To have been claimed by what we see of what