Subject: p 1 l l s

From: "German Figueroa" <[email-masked]>
Date: Tue, 13 Feb 2007 12:03:12 +0180

Appear to lift up from the lake;In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,That squareOh, 56 x 56By bloody poolrattling, gasping his last.A pallid yellow lingersAmong us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,watching calisthenics from the grandstands.A pallid yellow lingersAbsurdly, my eyes can only see the arcOf a far barn, just where the road curves sharplyFrom there. Toward .  .The surge of swirling wind definesDeep in the fog that quenches every ray,wonders if she'd ever be brave enoughWith a hand freed from weight,Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquentWheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet paintedLeft and right, and far ahead in the dusk.That images of roads, whether composed