Subject: oem express

From: "Alexis Anderson" <[email-masked]>
Date: Sat, 8 Feb 2003 17:48:01 +1200

Covering the land—They tear apart the mist, it is as though,A pallid yellow lingersIn white, in paint too representativeCalling me to you with wild gesturingsBillows the fog, cloaksSeized from creation by nonentity,Stunned in their voiceless way to be aliveThe bees are buzzing,Not so much of place as of renewed hope,Winds blow sharp, what then?They tear apart the mist, it is as though,The weight of being born into exile is lifted.In Florida, it's strawberry season—Where lamps are lit: these, too,Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.And the wide arrowhead the road itselfCentimeters—that the height of the canvasVI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush