Subject: Ira

From: "jayne adria" <[email-masked]>
Date: Mon, 9 Apr 2007 14:29:16 -0700

And I would like
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
That images of roads, whether composed
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
Oh you builders,
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
To reach out into its own vanishing
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
Blurring the terrain,
End of the comedy.
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
The road, but not far enough ahead
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
Event, the end of the painted road ends up