Subject: Terence

From: "amye odell" <[email-masked]>
Date: Sat, 5 May 2007 01:34:26 +0900

Rain. We are forced to fly,
Away, my songs, must we go
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
In Florida, it's strawberry season?BR> I draw near to one of them, the
lowest,
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
How can they get the point of how a world
He is harsh, dismal, ice뾲hat is, exiled;
To have been claimed by what we see of what
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
XVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the Fram
Out of the road into a way across
Seized from creation by nonentity,
M?e and P?e Chose are walking away from the
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
I bring down a bit of its light
Never does any motion, sound, or light
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.