An abandoned spider web, attached to a suburban chimney cap, pilfers its attraction to lonely debris, grabs pollen rolling over the shingles and hoists it like a flag. 

Clouds encase the backdrop, challenge the pollen and webbing to define “pure white.” 

Ghosts are translucent, forgotten and haunt places for attention. 

Bleached air is toxic to breathe. 

The chimney’s owners are painting their walls eggshell, in order to appease their guru, who instructed them to welcome cleanliness into their lives. 

Underneath the house’s foundation, soil protozoa purify Earth for exploitation. 

Above ground, a Styrofoam cup, stained with cherry Kool-Aid around its rim, gathers an eclipse and darkens red blotches decorating the cup’s basin. 

A door opens and pushes air which knocks the cup off the desk.

“I don’t remember drinking something red.” She says. 

“I remember my hog’s teeth, though, they were white as this…

We killed my hog. I remember this too.”