Sunday, August 19, 2007

Quinton Ames

watching calisthenics from the grandstands.
To reach out into its own vanishing
I. Arctic Scenery
Gray the cloud-like oaks
And piled up at the base of the columns
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
The edge of that other square cut from the right
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
That patch of white at the very end of the road
By trees—or might see as the masonry
To pick up even the quickening of wind
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
Away from their profundity of surface.
Snow haze gleams like sand.
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
At these masses the snow hides from me.
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
I do not betray you, I still go forward,
Along the walls are only empty niches,

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