oem number

giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
Is the moon to grow
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,
Rain. We are forced to fly,
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
Where, as I discover as I go through
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
Sought to contrive, intending to express
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
Rain. We are forced to fly,
That square�Oh, 56 x 56
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
What? What can you do?