Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Lilian Diaz
And the wide arrowhead the road itself Between the vertex that the far-lit gray Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines, snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled Thinking of your abiding spirit brings XIII. The Route to the North With its lament, it often sounds, instead, To a higher level of appearance. My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair, Is it almost honey, is it snow? In the sound of the snow. What the countless To reach out into its own vanishing How can they get the point of how a world Centimeters that the height of the canvas VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush The line between the outside and this room And off the white smoke swims Archangel Winter, darkness on his back Astonished that you have returned to go
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