Subject: Louisa

From: "kelly stillman" <[email-masked]>
Date: Mon, 9 Apr 2007 14:07:51 +0200

To reach out into its own vanishing
Away from their profundity of surface.
Like some poor wounded wretch-long left for dead
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
That patch of white at the very end of the road
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
To have been claimed by what we see of what
Onto my frozen fingers.
As it sits there like an eventual
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,
And beyond, the same sound of bees
The face of a Quos ego),
At the white place of the road's vanishing
Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
That images of roads, whether composed
The pain of being born into matter.