Sitting on my favorite circle, I am bent
And dangling over a square, with holes
On the sides, a lateral plane in white space, built
With white bricks and white pipes, I sit
Under white lights, listen to white fans
Breathing white air onto my white hands, my
White face. I’ve been throwing white paint
At triangles for hours, dripping
And flowing, there are pockets of air for one moment when
I splash at them and snuff
Them out. They go without one word, not
One wet plea, a last will, a sore thumb
Against their fate, a full blink, it must be so fulfilling
To be globular; made of light and true float, lucid
Beads of soap in an iron sink
A glowing ring on the end of a wand
in a child’s hand, pockets
Buried underwater, motion stirring them from
Sleep. I want to effervesce and fill myself
And claim one square inch of air, it’s mine
And I will disperse it amongst my form
And I will become spherical. I will be even
And luminous and brimming like
A perfect white, like an even coat
Thrown on canvas or panel, wall
Or window? I am standing in a field
Of white grass before the frontier, I hold color
In one hand, light in the other.
I muse on the Creator (standing on the far side
Of the field) making his first circle, discoid
Enough that he surprised himself, and saw that it was good so
Drawing in the deepest breath of all time and curling
His forefinger and thumb into a loop he blew
The most triumphant breeze of all time and all the planets
Went forth expanding into spheres, some landing near
Others of the same charge
And they began to sway, orbit and dancing,
Sonorous all the while expanding
In an everlasting exchange of force
And swelling verve! I like to think of the Creator
As the first Abstract Expressionist, who’s just
Trying to find the true nature
Of his medium, this time on spheres because
Flat surfaces had grown dull. I like to think
He was on a roll and surprising himself and planning
For his spherical masterpiece when he
Looked closely at the green and blue one and it
Was moving. And the Creator
Was so bemused with the little moving things that he
Forgot about his masterpiece.
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