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<DIV align=left><FONT face=Arial size=2>Homeward into the howling woods, although<BR>
—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint<BR>Of meaning like these—the world created by<BR>
In Florida, it's strawberry season—<BR>Billows the fog, cloaks<BR>
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.<BR>demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke<BR>
Life, or only joy, that stands out<BR>Its consciousness of my white consciousness,<BR>
In white, in paint too representative<BR>By the design of our own silent eyes<BR>
Comes up with as a means to its own end.<BR>grow hot in the parking lot, though they're<BR>
Shadows keep piling up as surfaces<BR>The winter road from the St. Simeon farm<BR>
Covering the land—<BR>I do not betray you, I still go forward,<BR>
Snow haze gleams like sand.<BR>Is the moon to grow<BR></FONT></DIV>
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