WHITE GLOSS
Oh we figured for this hard stem ice
on every limb; each particle of time
and matter glistens. I strum an old
machine, making its noises resound
over acres of empty white. I still get
happy at night : fervid drunken revels
with forest nymphs and farmyard lasses.
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This barn seems slanted, but wood never
fails. Or does it? I've seen toppled versions,
come to think, of this very same scene.
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Be wary, all who enter here. The top can
be the bottom, at any moment. Beware!
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