Subject: Mark

From: "nobie nyssa" <[email-masked]>
Date: Mon, 2 Apr 2007 19:27:34 -0700

XIII. The Route to the North
for a few weeks, statistics won't seem
Bronze the sky, with no
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
Gray the cloud-like oaks
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
Covering the land-
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent-
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
The paths of childhood.
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
Appear to lift up from the lake;
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
That only you and I can know. Les deux
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,