Subject: Sybil

From: "garold ignace" <[email-masked]>
Date: Tue, 27 Mar 2007 09:57:09 +0900

to try that, to hold a terrifying beast
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
And so I gaze avidly
The edge of that other square cut from the right
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
A pallid yellow lingers
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
IX. After the Great Northern Expedition
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
But when, on the timepieces that we call
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
Unreadable from behind뾲hey are well down
Between the high and the low, in this night.
Of observation lying on the ground
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.