Sometimes
a simulation
of rain, sometimes
a dim
metallic backlash
of what
you could call
your memory
if something
like that
could be said to exist
in this barn.
Our projects and days
were eaten
by the moths
fluttering in circles
of art over us.
The barn is as empty
as a bundle
of arrows.
The project
I’m told
isn’t real
never was,
and the ice crystals
and garbage
and pink slips
and time capsules
are strewn in heaps
against
the horizon,
in bulges
of sex,
in cages,
in cedar forests.
There is no stop
to the dripping.
Bye workers, bye patterns.
Bye spit
of the supervisor
that flies
through the wind
like blue commas.
There is no need
for the barn,
we are so advanced
in weather and war.
from the book PINK NOISE / Nightboat Books
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This is the fifth section of a five-section, narrative poem in which the speaker works in a mysterious laboratory-barn for "the perfection of the rain." It can be found in "Pink Noise", published this year by Nightboat Books.

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