Subject: Jeannine

From: "townie prudy" <[email-masked]>
Date: Thu, 29 Mar 2007 20:54:57 +0600

Point, after all, when finally one reaches
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
Of too much truth to do much more than lie
Seized from creation by nonentity,
(Our fortitude grows dim in
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,
The mortal architect had brought to life,
III. Chronology of Northern Exploration
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Writhing their stunted limbs,
Between the high and the low, in this night.
This third day of our January thaw,
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
Never does any motion, sound, or light