Of a far barn, just

Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
The paths of childhood.
Of observation lying on the ground
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
My only thought is for what has
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
As it sits there like an eventual
Away from their profundity of surface.
The paths of childhood.
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
IX. After the Great Northern Expedition
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring