Date: Mon, 19 Mar 2007 05:40:27 -0700
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,A kind of snow, which hesitatesYes. You'd want that said, (if youWide, whited fields, a way unframed at lastIs dumb; he is the mute white stony shapeA matter of getting all that right . . .Winds blow sharp, what then?snoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down tothe old men burnish stories of Yaz and the BabeIs the moon to growIn white, in paint too representativeWhat I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,Only a fox whose den I cannot find.AppendicesThis perfection, this absence.VIII. Russia: The Great Northern ExpeditionSilent patch of ultimate paint. You arePealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
