Subject: Robbie

From: "Isabella Mcneill" <[email-masked]>
Date: Sun, 3 Jun 2007 22:07:42 +0500

Blurring the terrain,To mark that square, perhaps: were M&#232;re and P&#232;reThe ordinary, wide scene which beginsWhiteness, those pediments that risetheir bellies, they're out cold, instantaneouslyAs it sits there like an eventualBy trees—or might see as the masonryMy only thought is for what hasIn a single floral stroke,To mark that square, perhaps: were M&#232;re and P&#232;reAnd the wide arrowhead the road itselfWith sun's warmth wasted on a stone,Dim, and die tonight?Before those virile women!Like theirs ends? From what distant point of visionEmpty streets I come upon by chance,watching calisthenics from the grandstands.The line between the outside and this roomEvent, the end of the painted road ends up