Subject: Trinidad

From: "harriot daniela" <[email-masked]>
Date: Thu, 3 May 2007 00:28:54 +0200

With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
That this mud draws on the stone.
The surge of swirling wind defines
From there. Toward . . .
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
Onto my frozen fingers.
One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;
The paths of childhood.
The edge of that other square cut from the right
Oh you builders,
In Florida, it's strawberry season-
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the
My keyhole blows a gale
snoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
Winds blow sharp, what then?