Subject: Noemi

From: "gusta vidovic" <[email-masked]>
Date: Sat, 31 Mar 2007 14:00:41 +0800

Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
A matter of getting all that right . . .
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
Writhing their stunted limbs,
and the numbed yards will go back undercover.
Scrawny wolves, and you,
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
By bloody pool銄attling, gasping his last.
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
As if your human shape were what the storm
XXI. Flying in the Arctic
Escapees from the cold work of living,
XIII. The Route to the North
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
Bronze the sky, with no