It’s like I’m being wooed by a spambot

Subject: to mia
Is the moon to grow
Covering the land^×
Again awaken from your being gone to find
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
Onto my frozen fingers.
Sought to contrive, intending to express
I seek, above all, in the wandering
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
XX. To the Pole
XIII. The Route to the North
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Lucky the bell^×still full and deep of throat,
The edge of that other square cut from the right
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form

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