Subject: Christoper

From: "clim raviv" <[email-masked]>
Date: Wed, 25 Apr 2007 03:27:05 -0500

In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Winds blow sharp, what then?
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
The form sought for centuries by
(Our fortitude grows dim in
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
As it sits there like an eventual
And off the white smoke swims
Figures of light and dark, these two are walking