there's a pulpy orange-y smell from

there’s a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
Beneath the snowflakes I notice façades
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply
Homeward into the howling woods, although
Never does any motion, sound, or light
I. Further Exploration of Spitsbergen
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
A frame of glided twilight-I
II. List of Franklin Search Parties
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
As it sits there like an eventual
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
In a single floral stroke,
From point to point of meaning-open? closed?-
grow hot in the parking lot, though they’re