Against a barn empty of the big lives,
Museum for still machinery and adzed beams,
The dry smell of the past, the slotted sunlight,
A monument to work, to will, and to necessity;
But maybe that's not right, that first line.
Is the life of a bull chained by his nose any larger
Than that of a white-footed mouse running free in the chaff?
The dry smell of the past, the slotted sunlight,
A monument to work, to will, and to necessity;
But maybe that's not right, that first line.
Is the life of a bull chained by his nose any larger
Than that of a white-footed mouse running free in the chaff?
