Aug 262011
Is it a death of the self, or of the self's 
One projection, fatal ray, deadliest beam 
Unfolding from out of a stillness the self contains 
Like scissors, or a dove's placid wings, abruptly flown 
From brooded palms, this quiet that returns 
To the stone house, empty and white 
In a whiter air? Something deeply tired 
Has taken the place of the cows, 
Still morose, filling the entire structure 
With placid breaths, but what is it? 
Is there, in this fix of airs, an extinguishing anguish 
That broods from the barn, the tired reds 
Falling in the air under a Dutch hex 
And a soggy roof buckled by the weather, 
Something that ticks in the empty hayrick 
Or yawns from the creosote timbers 
Leaning together a little in the space left 
By the solemn breathing of the cows? 

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