The whiteness descended from up North Dominic Eichler's poems are deeply perceptive. Filled with an acute sense of the transient, they capture precious moments--moments that are potentially better let...
But this whiteness is salt not snow
Earth laid himself out like an old mattress
fucked on and repeatedly left in the rain
then dried out--ten years of drought or more--
then fucked again
(excerpt from "The Whiteness")