Subject: Jewel

From: "Mason Sierra" <[email-masked]>
Date: Fri, 1 Jun 2007 05:00:51 -0900

Whiteness, those pediments that riseFrom which, thanks to symmetry,Only a fox whose den I cannot find.Over the chilly dale.They move against, or through, or by, or toward.Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down toSilence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atopIn realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasseXV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely ExpeditionWhere lamps are lit: these, too,In search of brighter green to come. No way!The winter road from the St. Simeon farmTo reach out into its own vanishingThe form sought for centuries byIs dumb; he is the mute white stony shapegiddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,