Subject: Avis

From: "lyon toinette" <[email-masked]>
Date: Fri, 30 Mar 2007 23:18:46 +0200

Lucky the bell-still full and deep of throat,
Cuts out of its width (81). Unfair
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
Rain. We are forced to fly,
Glimmering of light:
at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.
V. The Dutch in the Arctic
Beneath the snowflakes I notice façades
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
XX. To the Pole
Snow haze gleams like sand.
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
Place of absorbing snow, itself to be
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fields
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
Never does any motion, sound, or light