Poem, found in a spam email advertising pharmaceuticals:

To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
As it sits there like an eventual
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,
Of too much truth to do much more than lie
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
Covering the land—
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Trampled snow is the only rose.
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Unreadable from behind—they are well down

I. Further Exploration of Spitsbergen
The pain of being born into matter.
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
Sits at the limit of a kind of world