The facts sit in an ordinary room. They resemble people:
stubborn and without imagination.
The facts begin to chatter: Better days coming, better days
coming. They arrange themselves in the shape of a lie.
They’re cheating: they only work in the past tense.
They fake objectivity. They decide unanimously.
For example, what do you call that white pointed cylinder
generated by the roof on freezing days?
Hang-ice? I say.
Facts say wrong.
The facts await their moment.
In my early years, I didn’t think meadows came at a cost. There are no turnstiles or box offices at the edges of a meadow.