It's a wild white nest
in the true North.
All life's memory
of all existence.
It is the night that is
their natural habitat.
Blind birds singing
in glass fields,
among hallucinatory
moons, moons, moons.
They bare fish and
every paper letter.
In white electric vision
refined itself, still mad
and unfed.
One of those paintings
that would not hide.
Wherein each bed a grave,
for lovers and sleepers,
and those who forget.
Where they would be naked
as they always are,
because it is suppose to be
a painting of their souls.