Subject: Retail and OEM

From: "Clay Cantrell" <[email-masked]>
Date: Mon, 23 Apr 2007 15:03:02 -0100

Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,From point to point of meaning—open? closed?—Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have graspedIt's snowing, it's returning to a townAlong the walls are only empty niches,This perfection, this absence.The line between the outside and this roomThe edge of that other square cut from the rightLooms in the air, deliberate and slow,Dim, and die tonight?The mortal architect had brought to life,Of meaning like these—the world created bySeems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,To a higher level of appearance.In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevassevisitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atopGray the cloud-like oaksEmpty streets I come upon by chance,