on Monday morning through the cracks
in the barn wall slopes of light
(they're sheets of paper stacked on edge)
illuminate an antique cultivator
and lovers who squirm
on a canvas-backed rug
thrown over hay bales
the motes of the dust of which are
whales rising slow in their heaven
sounding great notes
and silences
within the channels
and pulsing vessicles of the humans
neurones sparkle play
provisional jazz
from which
subsonic grunts and fumbles
subsumed are historic events
for the bacteria
and macrophages darting in the veil of mucus
that lubricates their tangle
and the crystals of iron
in the tines of the cultivator
are snap frozen fluorescences
stele inscribed with flowers
on a dark
temple
in Memphis
switched off in 1958
a Silent Knight refrigerator
with no door
tilts one degree
it's stacked with paint tins
a radio on the top
bleats Slim Dusty (recently deceased)
and Patti someone
(recently released)
we could zoom in forever on
the details of this scene
and forget about the lovers
him and her and
who they think they are
just fifteen
fucking as fast as they can
before the school bus
comes