Vern

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Vern

Kara Ransom
My only thought is for what has
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,
As if your human shape were what the storm
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
In Florida, it's strawberry season—
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
Never does any motion, sound, or light
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
As if your human shape were what the storm
Seized from creation by nonentity,
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
Silent patch of ultimate paint. You are
Beneath the snowflakes I notice façades
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast
Would their world not remain comfortably
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,

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