Subject: Loyd

From: "javier nahum" <[email-masked]>
Date: Thu, 29 Mar 2007 10:34:15 +0400

To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
Like some poor wounded wretch≈long left for dead
From there. Toward . . .
End of the comedy.
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
He is harsh, dismal, ice≈that is, exiled;
Wheezing ravens, when
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
PХre and MХre Chose could be in conversation
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Silent patch of ultimate paint. You are
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent≈
The edge of that other square cut from the right