Subject: Betsy

From: "maxie cinda" <[email-masked]>
Date: Sat, 24 Mar 2007 14:47:48 +0900

뾗he place the road ends, that patch of white paint
That images of roads, whether composed
The pain of being born into matter.
I. Arctic Scenery
X. The British Attack on the Arctic
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
XVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the Fram
One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;
XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea
But when, on the timepieces that we call
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
Across the heavens' gray.
Everywhere, utterly.
When I am heard, and what I say is solely
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
Seized from creation by nonentity,