Subject: Charmaine

From: "allie drucie" <[email-masked]>
Date: Fri, 23 Mar 2007 18:06:56 +0900

The purest form is always the one
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
From point to point of meaning뾬pen? closed??BR> the foul pole relaxes.
She's raged all afternoon
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
Life, or only joy, that stands out
Trampled snow is the only rose.
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
More beautiful than anything in this world.
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
Appendices
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;