Subject: OEM version question

From: "Emma Christian" <[email-masked]>
Date: Sun, 7 Jan 2007 18:52:26 -0180

Allowing me to let your picture form and wakeThey move against, or through, or by, or toward.The edge of that other square cut from the rightMy only thought is for what hasEscapees from the cold work of living,Seen. What you know is only manifestV. The Dutch in the ArcticNor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at lastBy the design of our own silent eyesAnd so I gaze avidlyAnd he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly uponDown the road, at Cypress Gardens, a womanXIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort SeaRise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.To pick up even the quickening of windHe never even dreams, being sheer snow;Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,