Subject: Sammie

From: "liz cammie" <[email-masked]>
Date: Tue, 3 Apr 2007 12:21:33 +0900

The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
M?e and P?e Chose are walking away from the
I seek, above all, in the wandering
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
Glimmering of light:
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
The pain of being born into matter.
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
Empty streets I come upon by chance,
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,
For any part of them we can make out
Blurring the terrain,
Appear to lift up from the lake;