Tony Blews

I seek, above all, in the wandering

Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort

In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous

Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson

Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc

Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.

Of observation lying on the ground

Are gliding toward me on the ice into

Would their world not remain comfortably

A salamander scuttles across the quiet

Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question

Standing in the way of the truth. A white

That patch of white at the very end of the road

And up there I cannot tell if it is still

VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition

The road, but not far enough ahead

Against which we have been projected? What . . .

Life, or only joy, that stands out

Toward the still dab of white that oscillates