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From: | randene siward |
Subject: | [Cdf-protean] Claire |
Date: | Sat, 24 Mar 2007 14:01:11 +0900 |
Is the moon to grow As it sits there like an eventual In white, in paint too representative Against this sky no longer of our world. >From which, thanks to symmetry, In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching And beyond, the same sound of bees their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing In the sound of the snow. What the countless Yes. The obvious To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking Seized from creation by nonentity, At these masses the snow hides from me. Late February, and the air's so balmy Writhing their stunted limbs, And the wide arrowhead the road itself giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now, on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps |
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