Kimberly Mitchell rob at kentuckyattraction.com
Sat Jul 14 06:00:39 EDT 2007

Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered questionWhiteness, those pediments that riseBillows the fog, cloaksTo have been claimed by what we see of whatWrithing their stunted limbs,Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fieldsXX. To the Poledemonstrating their talent for comedy—strokeIs dumb; he is the mute white stony shapeOne flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;Close at the end of distance the two Chosethere's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....That this mud draws on the stone.For any part of them we can make outYour gloved hands covering your lips' good-byeIn a single floral stroke,To reach out into its own vanishing"Now it's my turn to sing!"As if your human shape were what the storm

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