Subject: Elmer

From: "elfrieda nadean" <[email-masked]>
Date: Wed, 2 May 2007 00:00:26 +0200

Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
Is the moon to grow
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
Out of the road into a way across
the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoon
Dim, and die tonight?
VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay
What is there in the depths of these walls
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
With a hand freed from weight,
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
The edge of that other square cut from the right
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
Of too much truth to do much more than lie
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place