Subject: Rex

From: "clarie pincas" <[email-masked]>
Date: Wed, 28 Mar 2007 12:26:34 +0900

Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
Out of the picture of life, as it were, out
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
Comes up with as a means to its own end.
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing
The form sought for centuries by
And piled up at the base of the columns
then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.
Like some poor wounded wretch뾩ong left for dead
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
Is the moon to grow
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
XX. To the Pole
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.