[physik] qhpgn

[Ricardo Dodson]

The purest form is always the one
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharplyNor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
End of the comedy.The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
Preface to the 1948 EditionCovering the land—
Is it almost honey, is it snow?Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
That patch of white at the very end of the roadEverywhere, utterly.
Oh you builders,Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he castSnow haze gleams like sand.
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
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