Subject: Emory

From: "abba baillie" <[email-masked]>
Date: Wed, 28 Mar 2007 14:50:31 +0200

Blurring the terrain,
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
The paths of childhood.
To reach out into its own vanishing
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
Appear to lift up from the lake;
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
For any part of them we can make out
Is the moon to grow
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
In the woods, close by,
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,