Kimberly

That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
Still has to be intoned, as in a lonely
From there. Toward . . .
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
Glimmering of light:
Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
To reach out into its own vanishing
The line between the outside and this room
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
Standing in the way of the truth. A white
The purest form is always the one