Tuesday, February 4, 2014

JOY OF—

An oily sky-
full 
of chilly 

beige light—arcing 

thickly
over 
the white midwestern

flatness of 
nearer
and gradually—farther snowfields

those glinting but
slumberous kinds that stretch 
and yawn

and vanish—out of focus

suffused into the distant roughness
of implied 
horizons vague with shrubs

only taking
about 
twenty two 

minutes—or so—for 
him 
to paint.

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