My period eye is filled with blood.
Like veins thickening, like railroad tracks,
Transmogrified Machines of warehouse
Round us—ducts and pipes. Its knotty floor was
Varnished before sweeping, so that every bit
Of dust and slice and scrape and dirt and dreck
Spreads under glassy surface to stare up
at life in All this Vast expanse of Loft.
And shining! Shining with imperfection!
Silvery clots in open spots of knotholes.