[pau-mikro] Karen

[Kennith Conley]

And beyond, the same sound of beesAgainst this sky no longer of our 
world.Beneath the snowflakes I notice façadesII. Quest and Conquestwill be 
penciled on the coffeeshop menus.From point to point of meaning—open? 
closed?—Where lamps are lit: these, too,Père and Mère Chose could be 
in conversationClear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent—there's a pulpy 
orange-y smell from juice factories....for a few weeks, statistics won't 
seemYes. The obviousThat only you and I can know. Les deuxTo a higher level of 
appearance.The ordinary, wide scene which beginstrainer flips young alligators 
over on their backs,Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,What I have in 
my hands, these flowers, these shadows,My keyhole blows a gale


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