Subject: Graciela

From: "danila ebonee" <[email-masked]>
Date: Sat, 5 May 2007 10:20:26 +0900

Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
Are muffled into silence that refuses
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
A matter of getting all that right . . .
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
So, startled, quivering,
They move against, or through, or by, or toward.
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
for a few weeks, statistics won't seem
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones