Subject: Latest Version Pro Brice

From: "judye saree" <[email-masked]>
Date: Thu, 29 Mar 2007 23:21:29 +0200

Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
Cuts out of its width (81). Unfair
Of observation lying on the ground
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.
Never does any motion, sound, or light
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
At the white place of the road's vanishing
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
watching calisthenics from the grandstands.
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
Centimeters-that the height of the canvas