June, Washington, 1998 A woman in a white convertible. Some short words, a long Pull at a brown bottle.
Approaching the city The improbable White shapes Of The Dome and The Monument Glitter against midnight.
Somewhere in that city stands A vast, empty room, Quiet except for the echoing wings Of a plain brown bird. The room Has no windows, only Four white walls and the sound of aimless flutter.
Thump, thump A sound Punctuates the stillness, the sound Of a tufted breast against white plaster An almost inaudible collision.
How improbable those walls seem To the indolent eyes of a bird. The walls Are eggshell White, really, The same eggshell White as its birth and yet So unlike those breakable surfaces.
Thump, thump, the corners Are new and also sharp. Everywhere White walls and angles Confront its persistence.
Its own breast was White once And its brown, twiggy nest A universe of failure, it Never imagined a night When such bright, clean places Existed only elsewhere.
Union Station. Ethereal tunes escape A brown-skinned man and his horn Of unpolished brass. The moon, as White as Love, As White and as cold As a headstone for the sky Sits low above the Dome.
Thump, thump, the sound Is only a gentle reminder Of the ordinary aspects of life White walls and angles, Childhood' past, Hubris and White plaster, The existence of corners, the fundamental Limits of endurance.