Sterile fields of white-tipped stalks
stand against pale boxes of frost,
the warmth of the sun diffused
into an even array of ashen hues,
left to be consumed by the artificiality
of lights sitting upon rafters, removed
from those deft dabs of ink, those
recycled remnants of our consumption,
those elements that come together
to compose the human bodies
that drift silently in undulating herds,
their flowing dance of lines folding
into one another like sheets of fresh linen,
spiraling to create webbed patterns
out of defined roles, their bodies
together, yet separate, their eclectic forms
severed by nebulous magnetic fields,
by the freedom to go wherever they please
so long as they remain within
the harsh right angles of a canvas defined
by sterile fields of white-tipped stalks.
