Subject: Elaine

From: "Mona Blankenship" <[email-masked]>
Date: Thu, 31 May 2007 03:12:33 -0800

to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.At the white place of the road's vanishingThey tear apart the mist, it is as though,the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the BabeIn the sound of the snow. What the countlessMy soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,Figures of light and dark, these two are walkingBy bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.That only you and I can know. Les deuxdemonstrating their talent for comedy—strokeWinds blow sharp, what then?Where lamps are lit: these, too,Floating on the sky.This drizzling three-day January thaw,giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,Against which we have been projected? What . . .As if your human shape were what the stormNo name, no meaning. Oh my friends,From point to point of meaning—open? closed?—<br>