Subject: Bobbie

From: "kyla nelson" <[email-masked]>
Date: Sun, 25 Mar 2007 12:14:19 +0200

Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
IV. The Paths to Cathay
Escapees from the cold work of living,
at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
This gap in time, this season not their own,
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
Dim, and die tonight?
The edge of that other square cut from the right
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
And I would like
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
That desire has ever built, have approached
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snow
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black