Subject: OEM

From: "Erika Slater" <[email-masked]>
Date: Tue, 10 Apr 2007 12:59:42 -0900

What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.At San Biagio, in the most intense roomSilence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;Astonished that you have returned to goIII. Chronology of Northern ExplorationPoint, after all, when finally one reachesBut when, on the timepieces that we callAt these masses the snow hides from me.Empty streets I come upon by chance,And M&#232;re Chose's square of world, even as theyOf Boyg of Normandy . . .It's snowing, it's returning to a townToward the still dab of white that oscillatesRain. We are forced to fly,The snowflakes are swirling, blotting outWind, sleet. The branches sway,Blurring the terrain,What can we know of whatever picture-plane