Eleven empty easels sit in a room without
abstract paintings or collages. Let’s be
this large empty room painted white
with a shellacked wooden floor. A room
of silence, naked and wanton. A life
without more hiatus. That moment of
vacuum, timeless. Let’s be
rivers that run through the middle of houses.
Upwards light buoys us
to surge through cities of clouds, a place
never dreamed, realms of noble terror
and delight where we become brushstrokes.