Subject: Rob

From: "orlan kaitlyn" <[email-masked]>
Date: Mon, 26 Mar 2007 01:55:30 +0900

The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
Is the moon to grow
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
Rain. We are forced to fly,
So, startled, quivering,
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
This gap in time, this season not their own,
Homeward into the howling woods, although
From which, thanks to symmetry,
VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition
In white, in paint too representative
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
That this mud draws on the stone.
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper