Subject: Ina

From: "consolata ansell" <[email-masked]>
Date: Mon, 2 Apr 2007 10:24:45 +0200

How can they get the point of how a world
For any part of them we can make out
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
A matter of getting all that right . . .
demonstrating their talent for comedy-stroke
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
At these masses the snow hides from me.
Is the moon to grow
I. Further Exploration of Spitsbergen
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
A frame of glided twilight-I
For any part of them we can make out
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
It's snowing, it's returning to a town
In the woods, close by,
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;