№ 8 Strafes the White-Out
This is a good day. № 8, with her honeysuckle
machine gun, has mowed down the avalanche.
Today we can sleep again, knowing that in hindsight
a cadmium red, in the dead of night a blood orange.
We love № 8, the assassin. The gesso melts;
the whitewash fades. The machine gun nuzzles
the pubic hairs of the forest. There are no alibis
for the green brain, the purple patch, the blue alleluia.