Subject: Rory

From: "Adrian Hurt" <[email-masked]>
Date: Thu, 31 May 2007 10:11:09 -0800

Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at lastthere's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....I've drifted somewhat from the distant heartUpon from the right by far trees, that white placeSits at the limit of a kind of worldReshaping magnified, each risen flakeWhat can we know of whatever picture-planeAnd then I go on until I am beneath an archway,Only a fox whose den I cannot find.Empty streets I come upon by chance,Yes. The obviousIts consciousness of my white consciousness,Writhing their stunted limbs,Where does this all end? What is the vanishingand chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired menEmpty streets I come upon by chance,Dismal, endless plain—<br>Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,snoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,