Subject: Jodi

From: "jaime yehudit" <[email-masked]>
Date: Mon, 26 Mar 2007 01:21:54 +0900

Standing in the way of the truth. A white
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
The edge of that other square cut from the right
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
Writhing their stunted limbs,
In white, in paint too representative
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
뾗he place the road ends, that patch of white paint
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
Between the high and the low, in this night.
What? What can you do?
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
Would their world not remain comfortably
A matter of getting all that right . . .