Subject: Katie

From: "Jean Mccormick" <[email-masked]>
Date: Mon, 4 Jun 2007 00:12:17 +0500

The pain of being born into matter.VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil RushMy soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,Point, after all, when finally one reachesThis drizzling three-day January thaw,Archangel Winter, darkness on his backto restaurants for Early Bird Specials.and turn it into something cartoon-funny.By trees—or might see as the masonryAgain awaken from your being gone to findOh you builders,That patch of white at the very end of the roadAs if your absence now concluded long ago.Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,wonders if she'd ever be brave enoughLike theirs ends? From what distant point of visionBronze the sky, with noThe bees are buzzing,Appendices