"...How terrible the stump of the woodmen,
     Their blunted shapes lumped under the sheets of snow..."
                         --Roy Doughty

From such a wrapping, the elegy proceeded,
the last blanket tucked below the bare
feelings extended, stripped of their green fingers like perception
following thought into deflection.  Abstractly, a silent museum
held power against the hill at a ***** of durable rock.  This
granite pulled thinking together in its form.

{ [ _ int f ( x ) d x d t = = del _ f ( x ) d g d E ] [ // ( y ; N , Z ) ] } .

It was allowed to like the experimental results of making lumps
under the sheets of summer, to be ironed and smelted
by the industry of the particular set, upon whatever planet
survival could be accepted, floating between work and the play
of its imagined universe, the sheets folded and placed

upon a shelf like numbers.