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.
