Subject: Weldon

From: "hakeem nickolaus" <[email-masked]>
Date: Mon, 26 Mar 2007 19:34:24 +0200

at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
The pain of being born into matter.
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.
And so I gaze avidly
Yes. You'd want that said, (if you
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
Seized from creation by nonentity,
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
Winds blow sharp, what then?
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
Would their world not remain comfortably
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Are muffled into silence that refuses