Uh, what are they trying to sell me?

Is it almost honey, is it snow?
and the Splendid Splinter.
For a few dreamy dollars, sits at the limit of a kind of world
At the end of the road.
Even if they are staring, the form sought for centuries by
Across the heavens' gray.
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply.
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass.
To have been claimed by what we see of what
And beyond, the same sound of bees.
As if your absence now concluded long ago.